


Children of the Moon and the Sea

by baNINA_bread



Series: What A Wonderful World [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Band, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Andy's a werewolf, F/M, Fluff, Joe's a clairvoyant, M/M, Multi, Other, Patrick's not even supposed to exist, Pete's a witch, it's ironic, ratings to be changed as the story progresses, so far - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-14 22:40:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 43,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5761624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baNINA_bread/pseuds/baNINA_bread
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 2016 and the world has gone through some... changes. For one, the Treaty of Equal Rights and Acknowledgment of Supernatural Beings has been approved, which meant supernatural creatures, commonly known as Others, can now walk among humans freely, with no prejudice whatsoever. And that's totally cool.</p><p>But for some species of Others, the Treaty came too late. Sirens were one of the unfortunate Others that were wiped out by hunting. To this day, Sirens are believed to be extinct.</p><p>Which begged the question: what exactly was Patrick Stump?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Like A Concert, But In Your Head

**Author's Note:**

> An AU where some people in the bandom are supernatural creatures/have supernatural abilities. It's weird but it's fun, I promise.
> 
> Also I hope you like PeteRick because hohOHOLY SHIT THIS GETS SO G A Y
> 
> EDIT: I update on Tuesdays!!! :D

It's 2016 and the world has gone through some... changes. For one, the Treaty of Equal Rights and Acknowledgment of Supernatural Beings has been approved, which meant supernatural creatures, commonly known as Others, can now walk among humans freely, with no prejudice whatsoever. Others are given the right to work and live as and among normal humans. And that's totally cool. You see vampires with handheld electric fans walking in the park, clad in many layers of clothing (human SPF levels just don't work with them), and sometimes you get to swim with mermaids at the beach (but some of them are jerks who lead you out to the deep and leave you there while they laugh, so don't trust any merperson). The world's literally a more magical place, and it's improved.

But for some species of Others, the Treaty came too late. Sirens were one of the unfortunate Others that were wiped out by hunting (they weren't witches, but the hunts at Salem fucked their numbers up). There weren't even any descendants of Siren families left—merfolk, contrary to popular belief, were not really a branch related to Sirens. What's worse is that Sirens could only mate once in their lives, so once their numbers dwindled, it was basically goodbye for them. To this day, Sirens are believed to be extinct.

Which begged the question: what exactly was Patrick Stump?

 

***

 

Pete Wentz woke up at noon with a niggling feeling at the base of his gut. The last time he woke up like this was back in fifth grade, when he felt the unrelenting urge to root through his grandmother's old trunk, where he found the family grimoire. Being in a family with mixed Wiccan roots kinda did that, waking up with urges to look for things. Things always seemed to keep calling to witches.

“Fuck...” Pete groaned, rubbing his face as he sat up. He looked around and clicked his tongue. Soon enough, his dog Bowie came padding into his room. Bowie was a white wolf-dog thing (seriously, he didn't even know himself) that was also his familiar. In the world of witches, familiars are useful, especially when you've got higher ranks—familiars can be your protection. But to Pete, Bowie was more of an emotional support dog who enjoyed chewing on flipflops way too much. Pete pat the empty space beside him, making the dog jump up and lie by his thigh. “Something woke me up, buddy,” Pete mused, rubbing behind Bowie's ears. “Wanna go look for it?” When the dog gave him a soft whine, he smiled. “Breakfast first. Of course. Come on.”

The two made their way to the kitchen, where the familiar smell of herbs greeted him. He'd forgotten to close the window again before going to bed last night, so the scent of the herbs he grew overwhelmed the room. He inhaled deep, and then went to fill Bowie's bowls with water and food. Once the dog was eating, Pete made himself coffee and popped a slice of leftover pizza in the microwave. While he waited, he walked to his living room to get the bowl of crystal marbles.

Bowie followed Pete and looked up at him, tilting his head as if to say “ _You know that's not really going to work, right?_ ”

“It's not a crystal ball, but it won't hurt to try,” Pete said, putting a hand on his hips. When the microwave _ding!_ ed, the two went back to the kitchen, Pete setting the bowl of marbles on the counter, and Bowie sitting close. “All righty, you ready to get spooky?” Pete cheered, mouth full of pizza. When Bowie barked back, he took a seat and laid his fingertips on the rim of the bowl.

Now this was the hard part, since Pete's never really been one to practice the art of scrying—it took too much effort just to get a few clues, and that's if Fate feels generous. Also, crystal balls were just too damn expensive, like what the fuck? But this felt important, so Pete closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. He allowed himself to focus on everything and nothing at once. Once he was sure he was in a clear headspace, he asked a silent question. “What am I looking for?” After repeating the question in his mind for a few times, he looked down at the crystal marbles.

What met his gaze was a pair of strange, blue eyes, repeated into every marble. It terrified him a bit, but there was something about them that was so magnetizing. But he knew that wasn't going to help him. “But there's a shit ton of people with blue eyes, what the fuck...” he muttered, feeling dumb. It wasn't his place to complain about which clues the Universe chose to give him, but this was borderline useless.

Until Pete heard a faint humming that made him feel as if his heart was breaking.

“Holy shit,” Pete whispered, all air leaving his lungs in a rush. When he looked into the marbles again, the eyes were gone. He looked at Bowie with the same stunned expression. Apparently, the dog also sensed his alarm. “Holy shit,” he said again, louder this time.

 

***

 

Meagan's reading was interrupted by the shrill sound of her ringtone. She scrambled to answer it, hissing into the speaker. “Pete Wentz, I am at a library, what the hell!”

“What do you know about Sirens?”

 _Oh, God._ Pete always had a habit of asking the dumbest questions. “I know they don't exist anymore, now could you _please—_ ”

“What are their effects on humans? On Others?” Pete asked, flipping frantically through the old books he had. “Fuck!” he yelled, after finding absolutely nothing. The editions of the encyclopedias he had didn't print anything about Sirens and other extinct Others. “I can't find any info on them, my books are newer editions. Please, Meg.”

Meagan Camper was no Other, but she was very smart, and well-connected. And it sounded like Pete was panicking about this, so it must be important. She collected the books she was about to borrow and started walking to the exit. “Give me two hours, tops. I think the city archives still have some files on them, but I'm not promising anything.”

“ _Thank you_. _”_

The girl got into her car. “What's this about anyway? You sound like you're freaking out.”

Bless Meagan's heart. She and Pete had been together, but after a year, they figured out that they were both better off as friends, and what a damn good friend she was. “Promise not to laugh?” Pete asked, throwing himself on the couch.

“Try me.”

“I think,” Pete gulped, “I just heard a Siren's call.”

Silence.

“Hello?”

More silence.

“Yo, Meagan? Are you still there?”

“Make that one hour, Wentz.”

 

***

 

“Cousin Dearest, you are a freak,” Brendon laughed, leaning with his elbows on the rocks by the riverbank. He missed this, talking to Patrick and seeing him smile after years of literally being in the dark. “People could have heard you, you know?” he continued, lifting Patrick's foot so he could play with his toes. “Why are your feet so weird? I've met guys with better feet than you.”

Patrick laughed and kicked water into Brendon's face. “Stop, it tickles. And I doubt anyone will ever hear me here. It's a freaking forest, Brendon.”

Brendon flicked his tail, making water splash on the other guy. Pretty soon they were having a little water war, Patrick's thin cardigan sopping wet with river water, face red from laughing too much. When their laughter dissolved into giggles, Patrick sighed. “Man. I missed you, Bren,” he said, touching his toe on Brendon's shoulder.

“I missed you too, Pattycakes,” Brendon said, swimming in closer to hug Patrick's leg. “And guess what.”

“What?”

“I _met_ someone,” Brendon giggled, biting his bottom lip.

Patrick scowled. “No, not again. If this is another one of your many conquests, I don't want to know, please.”

“But this time it's different! I really think I'm in love this time!”

“Bren, the last time you said you were in love, you got your heart broken, and you were nearly harvested.”

The merman pouted. “I had no idea he only wanted me for my body. But I promise, this time, it's _really_ love!”

Patrick could only wince. He remembered hearing rumors from other merfolk that Brendon Urie threw a tantrum and wiped out one of Vegas's coral gardens. Brendon was Brendon, and he was always prone to having a horrible temper, but when he was heartbroken he would either disappear for weeks or _rage_. “Brendon, I'm just... I'm just worried, okay? I don't like hearing you've gone berserk in some parts of the ocean. Also, it's hurting the marine environment.”

“I get it, don't worry,” Brendon said, rolling his eyes. “But honestly. I really feel something. This feels genuine now,” he pressed, smiling to himself when he remembered the boy he met a few days ago.

Well, Patrick, more than anyone else, loved Brendon, so he decided to keep his mouth shut about the pitfalls of possibly unrequited love. “What's this person's name?”

Brendon recalled how he'd seen the boy, sitting on the pier with his foot dangling of the edge. He had a beautiful face, a pretty boy with such pretty, brown eyes. He remembered how he wanted to pull his leg to catch his attention, but the boy was so focused on what he was writing that, for once, made Brendon stop and think about what he was going to do next. _Are you busy?_ he'd asked, swimming close to the pier.

 _Kind of,_ the boy said. _If you're thinking of pulling me in, I will shoot you in the tail, so please don't._

_I wasn't going to. What's your name?_

The boy looked at him curiously _. Why do you want to know?_

_Because I think you're really pretty._

The boy smiled. _That's pretty forward. I'm Ryan._

 _Brendon_ , Brendon said, taking the boy's foot and gently shaking it, as if it were a hand. _I'm Brendon._

“His name is Ryan,” Brendon trailed, smiling down at the ripples his movements made in the water. “He had really pretty eyes, and the way he smiled, oh my _God_ , Patrick.”

Patrick smiled. As much as he hated seeing his cousin get hurt, Brendon was adorable when he was happy, so he let him be. “Just be careful.”

“I will be.” Around the two of them, the place started getting dark. The sun was setting, and everything was starting to look painted in shades of blue. “Will you be okay on your own, though? Like, do you need me to be in the city with you? Because I've got this friend, she's a witch and she gave me these pills once that made me have legs for, like, two to three hours—”

“What the fuck, Brendon.”

“Do you have a bathtub? I can crash at your place if you do—”

“Brendon, I'll be okay,” Patrick said, putting his shoes on. “Don't worry about me. I'll be fine. To be honest, I'm glad I'm finally living on my own now.” When his reply did nothing to erase the worry on Brendon's face, he poked at the guy's forehead. “I'll be fine, Forehead, don't worry!”

“Okidokes. But before you go... one more song?” Brendon asked.

“Of course.” Patrick took a deep breath.

 

_Let's go in the garden, you'll find something waiting_

_Right there, where you left it, lying upside down._

_When you finally find it, you'll see how it's faded_

_The underside is lighter when you turn it around._

 

Patrick raised his eyebrows at Brendon, inviting him to chime in, to which the merman obliged.

 

_Everything stays, right where you left it_

_Everything stays, but it's still changing_

_Ever so slightly, daily and nightly_

_In little ways, everything stays._

 

Brendon smiled at Patrick, who leaned down to hug him tight. “Don't worry about me, Forehead. Stay safe for me.”

“Okay. See you in a few days?”

“I'll be here,” Patrick said, waving as he left.

 

***

 

“I'm hearing it _again_ , Meagan...” Pete groaned. He was lying on the open books and old newspaper clippings on the floor of his living room, Bowie huffing at his side. “It's faint, but I can hear it. Like the echoes of a faraway concert. Only it's in my head.”

Meagan was in the kitchen, sipping at the tea Pete brewed for her. She sat by the counter, long, tanned legs swaying off the bar stool. “I don't get it. Why don't you just use, I don't know, a conjuring spell, or a ward, or whatever you do to find stuff? You've done it before, right?”

“Tch, yeah, but it only works on inanimate objects. I can only attract things with no life. Whatever this is sounds very much alive.” Pete stood up and sauntered to the girl, head hurting from reading too much and eating too little. “Watcha got there?”

“An old journal entry from the last Siren that lived in this city,” Meagan said, lifting the plastic-wrapped page by its edge. The page was yellow with age, the corners torn. “It's legit, I promise.”

“Meagan.”

“What?”

“How did you get this?”

“I told you, I got it from the archives.”

“ _Meagan.”_

A slow smile spread across the woman's face as she brought Pete's _I Woke Up Like This_ mug to her lips. “I may or may not have pinched it.”

“Holy _shit_ , Meagan! You stole this?” Pete exclaimed, startling Bowie. “That's illegal, holy shit.”

“Technically, we're only borrowing it! And—”

“You have actual plans to go back there. Really,” Pete frowned, crossing his arms.

“It's a piece of town history, would be pretty selfish just keeping it here,” Meagan shrugged, taking a nonchalant sip. “And you said you needed information. Do you have more honey?”

“No honey for you.” Pete plucked the mug from the woman's hands and walked to the little herb garden by the kitchen window. “Now I have to ward prying eyes from you.”

Worry rose in Meagan's gut when she saw Pete clipping bits from his herb garden. “No way. You will not add witchy stuff in my tea, Wentz, I swear.”

“I have to, if you really want to return that,” Pete reasoned, hand poised over the mug. In his clenched fist were sprigs of masterwort and torn-up bay leaves.

“They always end up tasting horrible...”

“Hey, I never said they had to taste good to work,” Pete quipped. “Masterwort and bay leaves. Great for protection against evil eyes.” When Meagan ruefully reached for the mug, Pete pulled it away and set it by the sink. He opened his cupboards, rummaging for the last ingredient. He tiptoed to reach the small bottle, grunting as he stretched.

“Need help, Petey?” Meagan teased.

“I hate you.” Unfortunately for Pete, two things ran in his veins: magic, and the family curse of being short. He was 5'7'', which was shorter than the average adult male. Meagan was taller by a few inches. Soon enough his fingers reached the bottle. He sneered at the woman and showed her the bottle, relishing the small gasp of betrayal she gave.

“Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III, don't you _fucking dare_ put curry in my tea,” Meagan said, raising a perfectly-groomed eyebrow. “Hoe, don't do it.”

Pete grinned as he gave the curry shaker a good, well, shake, sprinkling an ungodly amount of the stuff into Meagan's tea. He handed her the mug and watched her make a face. “Curry also gives you luck. Drink up, Camper.”

Meagan grimaced as she took a sip. “You are a bad person,” she muttered as the muck (no, that certainly did _not_ identify as tea anymore) filled her mouth with the taste of regret. “I'm not finishing this. Is there any other way? Do I actually need this?”

Pete's expression turned grave. “Yes, you do. I want you to be safe, since you just stole from the local government.”

“Oh.” Meagan winced and sipped a bit more.

Pete couldn't take it. “Actually, I just wanted to see you down that shit, I could have honestly just made you a small pouch of the herbs,” he snorted.

After a beat of stunned silence, Meagan removed her shoe and threw it at Pete.

 

***

 

After walking all the way from the river, once Patrick reached his apartment complex he felt like passing out. He'd forgotten his tumbler at home again, which meant he was pretty dehydrated by now. The thing with Patrick was that he wasn't really related to any merfolk (Brendon included—they were just super close), but he felt as if he was part-mermaid with the way he was always _thirsty_. He couldn't go an hour without feeling parched. So he quickened his pace and jogged up the stairs, to the second floor.

As he turned sharply from the top of the staircase down the hall to his apartment, he bumped into somebody tall and solid.

“Woah there, dude,” the taller guy said, clutching what looked like a potted plant to his chest. “You okay?”

Patrick had never seen this guy around. “Oh, um, sorry, I just—”

“It's okay, just nearly hurt my merchandise here,” Tall Guy said, patting the pot that looked like it held, well, _pot._ Like, the drug kind. “I'm Joe, by the way. Just moved in.”

 _Oh, that's why_. “I'm Patrick, Patrick Stump,” Patrick said, sticking his hand out for the guy to shake. “I didn't see you moving in this morning.”

“I got here this afternoon actually. My friend helped me move in. It's great when you have a werewolf as a friend, makes moving stuff really easy,” Joe said, giving Patrick a lazy grin. He shook his curly hair out of his face to see the little guy better. “We live on the same floor, right?”

“Yeah, I'm 207, actually.”

“Ah.”

After a stretch of silence, Patrick felt as if he was being studied by Joe, the way he stared with his deep-set blue eyes. “...Cool.”

“...”

Okay, Patrick really felt uncomfortable now. Joe's eyes started to look like glass in his head and it was starting to give him bouts of anxiety. “Wh-why are you staring at me?”

And then Joe blinked, his prying expression fading. “I'm sorry, man, I zoned out,” he said shaking his head again. “You know when you get a vision, right? And you're kind of asleep but you're not? Yeah, I just had one of those. No worries.” He frowned down on his pot of pot. “Maybe I should slow down on this baby...” he muttered.

Patrick nodded in understanding. “Clairvoyant, I see,” he mused, looking for his keys in his pocket. His hands only found his wallet. “Fuck.”

“Something wrong?”

“No, I just... I lost my keys,” Patrick said, patting at his front and back pockets, hoping he just made a mistake of not noticing they were there in the first place. “Yeah, I lost my keys.”

“No, you didn't, you left them in your living room,” Joe said, turning heel and walking towards Patrick's place. He walked down the hall, hair and plant bobbing with every step. He put his potted plant on the floor, and closed his eyes. “Yep, it's in there.”

Sighing, Patrick settled himself on the floor. At least the floor wasn't cold. When he looked up, Joe was fiddling with the lock on his door. “What're you doing?”

“I'm an expert at lock-picking, don't worry.”

Patrick decided not to ask how and where he learned to pick locks. Soon enough the lock clicked, and Joe was opening his door. “Holy smokes, that's awesome. You're awesome. Thank you.”

“Don't mention it,” Joe said, groaning as he bent over to pick the plant up again. “I'm at 210, if you need any help with stuff, or when you need help finding your keys.”

The shorter man laughed. “Will do. Thanks, Joe.”

“Oh yeah. You might want to close your windows before taking a bath tonight.”

“... What?”

“Close your windows,” Joe shrugged. “Don't question it. I don't even know the actual reason why, but you should do it. Feels like it. Or something.”

Patrick knew better than to question people with psychic abilities, so he nodded instead.

“Well, I'm off. Great meeting you, Patrick!” Joe said, walking backwards down the hall.

Once Joe was gone, Patrick closed his door and all but _sprinted_ to the kitchen. After gulping down two full glasses of water, he felt much calmer. Fucking genes. He hummed as he walked to his bedroom, fingers tapping random keys on the keyboard by the door. Despite being alone for the first time in years, Patrick finally felt safe. No one was keeping him locked up anymore, no one was monitoring his every move. He was alone but he was free. Leaving the Institute was the craziest but best decision he ever made. He looked at himself in the mirror, feeling a silent pride swell in his chest. He looked healthy, and he got by on his own.

All he needed to do now was forget what happened.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I researched a bit on actual modern witches. Also I made Pete have mixed Wiccan roots, because even though he isn't really “white” (I think his mom's Jamaican?), I couldn't give him Voodoo roots.
> 
> Also I couldn't pass up the chance to make Brendon a mermaid, I'm sorry. It fits, somehow??
> 
> This AU feels sooooo fun I love urban supernatural things yaaass
> 
> The song Patrick sings is “Everything Stays” by Rebecca Sugar pls look it up it's like a lullaby and it's soooo good. Marceline sang it on Adventure Time, but there's a male cover on YouTube.


	2. Close Encounters of the Cryptic Kind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaand it's tuesday again! my writing professor found out i wrote fanfiction in my spare time and told me i was cheating because i was already taking classes to write better. what he doesn't know is that fanfiction actually INSPIRED THIS DUMBASS TO ENROLL IN THE CREATIVE WRITING PROGRAM H A HA
> 
> i don't own anything (songs, people, places) except for the PLOT. 
> 
> that being said, i hope you enjoy this chapter!!

_July 8 th, 1914_

 

_I have lost the light of my life. Stefan has left me to walk this earth alone, and my heart is breaking. Cancer has taken him from me, and I don't know what I will do next. He is the only one I can ever love in this world, and the only one who would keep my secret. This world does not look kindly upon people like me. Stefan was kind, he understood me, protected me, and made sure our family was safe. I can't go back to Chicago after what happened to Aunt Tessa and the others—I still have nightmares from seeing their bodies hanging from the trees like strange fruit._

_Everything is much stricter now. I feel as if there are people who know what my son and I are. I do not know who to trust. My son is terrified of singing at Sunday mass because the people will know. Aaron cannot control himself like I can, and I don't believe I have it in me to teach him. It was always Stefan who taught me how to control what I could do, always, always him._

_At this rate, people like me would cease to exist in a few years. I doubt we will see the next decade._

_I am lost. Heaven help us._

 

_Helen_

 

Pete rubbed his eyes, leaning back into his chair. The desk lamp illuminated the decaying page, and he could see the dust that floated in the light above it. It was nearly 1 in the morning, and he was still bothered. He looked around the dim study, taking deep breaths. After reading the journal entry, he felt his heart sink in his chest, feeling sorry for Helen and her son. He couldn't imagine living life constantly on the run, and then losing the only person you could ever love in the process. He heard that Sirens had slightly longer lifespans than humans did, some reaching the ripe age of 150 years old before passing. Living more than a century in perpetual heartbreak? Fuck, Pete and Meagan were together for roughly a year, and even after the mutually friendly split, he still felt miserable by himself.

He clicked the lamp off and went to his bedroom, walking slow so he wouldn't wake Bowie up. When he was in his room, he jumped into bed, hoping to feel at least a bit tired.

Nothing. He was still restless.

“Ugh,” he muttered, wrinkling his nose and sitting up. Only then did he realize the pale blue slice of light streaming into his his glass windows. He slipped off his bed and walked to the windows, where he saw the moon, hanging bright and full in the sky. “That's why,” he grumbled. He hated the fact that he was more of a night witch than a day witch, his powers peaking once there was a full moon. He already had killer insomnia, and now this. It was like getting a period, only with less blood and more unwanted energy. Sighing, he went to the kitchen, took the glass bowl of crystal marbles, and went back to his room. He sat crosslegged on the floor, right in the middle of the moonlight slice, feeling his nerves sing with energy. The bowl felt warm in his hands. Behind his eyelids, Pete started seeing patterns, dots of light in darkness, forming like constellations. He didn't flinch when he felt Bowie sit next to him, probably sensing his powers.

Pete let himself drift into headspace once more, allowing the magic in his blood to vibrate through his fingertips and seep into the marbles. Slowly, he opened his eyes and looked down.

He saw a flash of a face, pale, with red cheeks. The stranger looked friendly, blue eyes full of quiet satisfaction. His dark blond hair was plastered his forehead, and his cheekbones were in contrast to the slight double-chin he had going on. Pete had never seen this person, and the marbles never showed him a full face before. He kept looking, and noticed that the stranger's mouth was moving. Pete strained to hear what he was saying, if he was saying anything at all.

 

_I watch the work of my kin, bold and boyful_

_Toying somewhere between love and abuse_

 

“Holy shit, it's the voice,” Pete exclaimed, looking at Bowie. “It's _his_ voice!”

 

_Calling to join them, the wretched and joyful_

_Shaking the wings of their terrible youth._

 

 _Fuck_. The voice was much clearer now, its effect on the witch much, much stronger. With every note, every lilt of the stranger's voice, Pete felt himself getting weaker and stronger at the same time. His lungs felt as if they were being punctured, but it was a sweet kind of pain, like the sting of a needle before the high of heroin. It was like his soul separated from his body. For the first time in history, Pete Wentz felt as if his body, his heart, and being was not his.

He wanted to try communicating with the stranger. His mom had done it before, right after he moved out—it was worth a shot. And the moon was still up, so his magic was still strong. “Hello?” When the stranger kept singing, Pete strained himself some more, and spoke louder. “Can you hear me?”

The universe proved its kindness. The stranger stopped and looked around him, as if hearing a distant call. Pete felt his heart swell with pride. “Who are you?” he asked, excited. He didn't know what was going to happen, but he felt a pulling as the minutes ticked by. He was _meant_ to see this person. “What's your name?”

The stranger frowned, then shrugged. He moved a bit out of view, and all of a sudden all contact was lost.

“What... Wait, wait, no, no, _no!_ ” Pete cried, the view fading. He shook the bowl, trying desperately to bring the image or at least the voice back, but to no avail. The stranger was gone. “Fucking... fuck!” He let the bowl drop from his hands, marbles rattling as the bowl hit the floor. “What the fuck happened? I was so close!” he complained to Bowie, who only looked at him and licked his nose. Frustrated, Pete stood up and shot the moon a dirty look. “Fuck you,” he spat, before throwing himself back to bed, hoping to get a few hours of sleep as consolation.

 

***

 

Patrick tiptoed carefully back to the tub after shutting the window, dripping wet and shivering. Joe was right. He should have closed his window before taking a soak—the cold air had rushed in and made the flame of his scented candle flicker. And he also felt as if someone was watching him, so it was probably best that it was now closed. Once he settled himself back into the tub, he sighed and closed his eyes.

He brought his hand up to the back of his neck, feeling for the scar the Institute had left on him. A shiver ran down his spine when he remembered the last time anybody had touched it. He let his fingers trace the ridges and bumps left from countless times of scalpels cutting of bits of skin samples from him. _Stop thinking of it, Patrick. You're safe now. You got away,_ he thought, taking deep breaths and pushing the negativity aside. He let go of his scar and set his hand on the side of the tub, and started feeling sleepy. Berating himself for taking a bath at the wrong time, he got up and dried himself off. As the warm water swirled into the drain, he blew out the scented candle (pine trees always reminded him of home) and then stood at the sink to brush his teeth, humming as he did so. Afterwards, he clicked the light off and went to get dressed.

He slipped into bed, hissing at the unexpected coldness between his sheets. It took him a while to adjust, and once he was comfortable, he started drifting off.

Well, he could have, if it wasn't for the fact that his bed was still too damn _cold,_ even after a few minutes of being in it. “What the hell...” he muttered, sitting up. This never happened before. Granted, he forgot turning the heater on some nights—this wasn't one of those nights, he checked—but this cold felt... different. His bed felt emptier.

He tossed and turned, and then decided to stick a hand down his pants. He thought about touching himself, since maybe this was just another bout of loneliness, but later decided against it—the last time he masturbated, he moaned enough to break a few flower vases. He pulled his hand out, biting his bottom lip. Not that he was loud, it was just... the frequencies of his voice were just really, _really_ high. The vibrations were stronger. _And maybe that's why you're still single_ , he thought, getting up to brew himself a cup of tea.

Patrick ended up not sleeping at all, going through five cups of tea and finishing a book. Normally it would take him a number of nights to finish reading a full length novel, but after all the tea he felt even more awake. He watched from his window as the sky turned into varying gradients of blue and purple, reminding him of how bruises looked. He gulped as his own old bruises flashed in his mind, so he turned away before he could break into a cold sweat. Pretty soon his whole apartment was filled with sunlight. At least it looked like it was going to be a nice day.

 

***

 

“Yo, you're awake! Hey, listen, I need to take the page back to the archives before this afternoon. I heard that the guards haven't changed their shifts yet, so I'm betting it's safer to bring it back in the morning,” Meagan said, sandwiching her phone between her ear and shoulder. “Also, how do you feel about coffee?”

Pete could only process a few words from the sudden call from Meagan. Seriously, did she have to call at 8 in the morning? “What the fuck, Meagan.”

“God, please don't tell me you're still in bed.”

The witch kicked the covers off himself. “Meg, it's, like, ass o'clock in the morning,” he complained. “Can't you just bring me coffee or something?”

“Ooh, someone woke up fresh,” the woman teased. “Unlike you, I actually have a day job. So get your fat ass out of bed. I'm willing to pay for your coffee, though!” When Pete grunted at her, she persisted. “Come on, it'll be fun! Coffee and breakfast on me. Come _on_.” She was about to push the door of the coffee shop open, but a barista holding a mop pulled it open for her. “Thanks, cutie,” she told the guy, noting how he didn't really seem like the type who'd work behind a counter. Still, his ginger beard and tattoos made him cute. She walked to the counter, standing behind an old lady in line. “Are you out of bed yet?”

“Yeah, I'm in the bathroom,” Pete yawned. He looked at himself and grimaced—were his eyebags that big? “Breakfast is on you? Are you sure?”

“And by breakfast I mean one croissant.”

“Two.”

“ _One_. _”_

“Dammit. Hold on, I'm getting in the shower. Which coffee shop are we talking about again?” Pete asked, nearly tripping as he pulled off his boxers.

“ _Pretty Odd's Chemical-Free Coffee_. It's the new one. You'll find it, it's so quirky.”

“All right. I'll be there in 45.”

“Quick, the baristas are cute!”

“Fuck off, Camper,” he laughed before ending the call. Behind him, Bowie had started drinking from the toilet. “Bowie, no! Down!” When the dog padded back out into the bedroom, he sighed. His familiar drank toilet water and chewed slippers. Great. The rest of his coven would be so proud.

 

***

 

Thank God Joe was awake when Patrick knocked on his door. “Wanna grab some coffee?” he offered, hoping he didn't wake the guy from his knocking. “I am so sorry if I woke you up, it's okay if you say no—”

“Perfect, you're just in time,” Joe greeted, already fully dressed for the day. “Knew you'd be coming by,” he said, tapping the side of his head. He stepped out and locked his door behind him.

“Oh. Whew, okay.”

Joe studied Patrick again, making the shorter man fidget. “You didn't get any sleep, didn't you?”

Patrick's hands pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, feeling self-conscious. “Is it that obvious?”

The taller man snorted and put an arm around Patrick. “See, that's what you get when you don't listen to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“You didn't close your windows before you took a bath,” Joe said, shrugging as if it made perfect sense. “That's what you get when you don't listen to your clairvoyant neighbor.”

Patrick stopped in the middle of the flight of stairs. “Wait, you're saying me not getting any sleep last night was caused by my forgetting to close the windows before I took a bath?”

“Yep.”

“... Really?”

“No doubt.”

“Er, why?”

Joe smiled knowingly. “You'll find out soon enough.” When Patrick opened his mouth to ask what he meant, he cut him off. “My friend works at a coffee shop close by, maybe we can ask for free coffee. And maybe toss in a few cupcakes, if you sing for them, too.”

Patrick stopped in his tracks. There was no way he sang loud enough in the bathroom last night for his across-the-hall neighbor to hear.

Joe just gave Patrick an exaggerated wink.

 

***

 

“Holy shit, you brought Bowie with you.”

Pete frowned at Meagan's tone. “Hey, Bowie can _behave_. And it was time for his morning walk anyway, so I thought...” he said, finishing the sentence with a shrug. “And he wants me to tell you that the way you said that just hurt his feelings.”

Meagan got on her haunches and cooed at the dog. “Sorry, Bowie. It's just because I'm not sure they let dogs into the shop, that's all.” She rubbed the dog's neck and looked up at Pete. “What if they don't? You can't leave Bowie out here, he's such a pretty boy, someone might steal him.”

Pete smirked. “They'll let him in.”

“Dude, I don't know...”

The witch pushed his Ray-Bans low enough to shoot Meagan a naughty look. “They _will_ , trust me.”

Pete's plan dawned on her when the guy strode into the shop with his dog. The bastard was going to use magic on the baristas, the little fucker. _“Touche,_ Wentz, _”_ she said under her breath.

Pete readied his charm as he walked up to the marble counter, all bravado and pride... until he saw the barista who just started his shift. Okay, to be honest, Pete felt a little intimidated by the guy at the counter. The other baristas who worked around him looked fairly harmless, like they were college students or something, but this guy looked _dangerous_. He had thick, muscular arms, a heavy brow with gunmetal grey eyes, tattoos all over (even on his fucking _throat_ , holy shit), and a strangely ginger but full beard. He could throw Pete across the room in one sweep, really.

“Dude, is that your dog?” the barista asked, nodding at the Bowie.

 _Wow_ , Pete thought. The dude's voice certainly did not match his look. It was soft, a bit squeaky, and dare he say... cute? “Uh, yeah.” Behind him, Meagan snorted. “Look, here's the thing—you're going to let my dog stay in here,” he said, taking his sunglasses off and directing his charm at the barista, “and you're not going to say anything against it. Okay?”

The barista only looked at him. “Yeah, sure, why not.” Before Pete could celebrate, he spoke again. “And it's not because of your magic. Your dog's just really cool.”

“I—what?”

It was the barista's turn to smirk. “You're a witch. I could smell you from a mile away.”

It took all of Meagan not to double over from laughing at how red Pete was right now. “Oh, God, this is _precious,_ ” she wheezed, leaning on Pete's back.

“You're...?”

The barista smiled at him, revealing the gap in his two front teeth. “I'm a werewolf, surprise!” he said, waving his hands around. “Don't worry, man. It's cool. A lot of people don't peg me for one. Probably because of these,” he said, showing off his ink. “Pets are allowed here, as long as they behave. I'm Andy, by the way. What can I get you?”

“Sorry, my friend's too embarrassed to speak right now,” Meagan said from behind Pete. “He'll have a vanilla latte, and a croissant, please.” She handed Andy the cash from around Pete, who was still staring wide-eyed at the cash register in shame.

“All right. To-go, or are you staying here to drink?”

“We're staying.”

“I'll take your drink to your table in a bit. What's your name, Miss?”

Meagan put her wallet back into her bag. “Oh, no, put his name on the receipt. The other guy took my name already. Brown eyes, very pretty?”

Andy nodded. “Oh, Ryan. Okay, so your name, Sir?”

“Pete! I'm... I'm Pete,” Pete said suddenly. When Andy was done, the two (and Bowie) went to where Meagan was sitting before Pete came, a booth in the corner of the shop. “Oh, my God, can I just die,” Pete said in one breath, slipping into the farthest side of the booth. Bowie laid down at his feet under the table.

“Did you bring the page?” Meagan asked, opening her bag.

Pete took the page out of his jacket pocket. “I also cast a ward on that, so it's going to take a miracle for you to get caught. Please don't fuck it up.”

“I won't, don't worry,” Meagan said, rolling her eyes.

Soon enough Andy strolled by with Pete's coffee and croissant. “Thanks, man. And sorry about... earlier,” Pete said, wincing.

“It's cool,” Andy said, laying the cup gently on the table. “I get lots of witches coming by. Something about the ambiance, the other guys say.”

Pete nodded—there really _was_ something about the place that seemed calming. The place must've been built on witch-owned ground. “Hey, I hope you don't mind me asking but can you... I mean, you're a werewolf, right?”

“Yes.”

“Is it true that you guys can communicate... you know, with...” Pete trailed, ending his sentence with a pointed look down at his dog, who was snoring softly under the table. He heard stuff about it before, but he never really got the chance to actually ask a werewolf about it. It was probably because he was too intimidated by them. Or the fact that he didn't have so many friends. “No offense,” he added, because Andy was a scary-looking dude who could bench press him if he wanted.

“None taken. And yeah, in a way. Werewolves can kind of pick up a vibe of what dogs can feel or think since we're both kinda from the same Canine family.” And tucked the tray under his arm. “There's a lot of science to it, actually. Though I am kinda surprised you didn't know that. I mean, witches tend to know a lot of things and stuff.”

“Pete doesn't have any friends, that's why,” Meagan deadpanned, making Pete scuff her ballet flat with his boots under the table.

“He's got you though,” Andy said, smiling.

“Yeah, and I regret every decision I've made that led to it,” Pete said, making a face at Meagan, earning a laugh from the barista.

“Call me if you need anything else!” Andy said, heading back to the counter. It seemed like a pretty slow morning for them, so he took his time rearranging the cupcakes on display.

 

***

 

Joe pushed the door of _Pretty Odd_ open with a flourish. “Welcome to _Pretty Odd's Chemical-Free Coffee_ , neighbor,” he said, keeping the door open for Patrick. “Also known as one of the coolest coffee shops in town.”

“Uh... why?” Patrick asked, walking a bit behind Joe as he made his way to the counter.

“For one, the name sounds pretty fuckin' cool. Second, they allow pets in here. See?” Joe said, nodding in the direction of the shop's corner.

Patrick perked up at the mention of pets. He turned to look where Joe nodded, and saw a snow-white dog sleeping under a table.

And then he saw the guy who probably owned said dog. “Oh, my God...” Patrick exhaled. The guy was tan and bleach-blond and _striking_ , the way he wore all black and smiled in a way that made Patrick feel that he owned the place, owned the _world_ , and, wow, Patrick suddenly had a hard time breathing.

But then he saw that the guy was talking to a woman, also blonde, who had her back to them. Patrick couldn't see her face, but judging from her long, tanned legs and how the guy seemed so comfortable talking to her, he knew that she was beautiful. Beautiful people, he thought, would always end up with beautiful people. Not with people like him. He turned his attention to the cupcakes instead.

“Pretty cool, right?” Joe continued, thinking that Patrick's breathy “ _omg_ moment” was because of the dog under one table. “I come here every day, the coffee's great.”

“And here I thought you came for me,” a bearded guy said, coming up to the counter.

“Patrick, meet Andy Hurley,” Joe said as he leaned on the counter. “Light of my life, fire of my loins,” he added, making a kissy face at the barista.

“Shut up. Nice to meet you, Patrick,” Andy beamed, reaching over the counter to shake Patrick's hand. “You seem new here. Where are you from?”

“I, uh—”

“Patrick's from not far, actually. What's your Cupcake of the Day, babe?” Joe cut in, changing the subject. “This one's on me, Patrick,” he added. He knew that where Patrick came from was a sore topic, because he could almost smell the anxiety that poured out of the guy as soon as Andy's question left his lips.

Andy knew better than to push the question. Whenever Joe changed the topic, it meant that whatever was being talked about was not for all ears, and he'd learned to understand it. He offered Patrick a smile and gestured to the display. “Today's a Green Tea Buttercream Cupcake kind of day, in my opinion. Goes well with anything. It's also vegan, so I really recommend it.”

“Stop shoving your veganism down my friend's throat!” Joe teased, reaching over to smooth a stray lock of hair back into Andy's pomade-slicked coif. “Also, you should consider wearing a headband.”

“And you should consider keeping your hands to yourself, Trohman,” Andy said, ducking out of Joe's reach. When he noticed Patrick's slight confusion, he spoke again. “We're not dating. Joe only wishes.”

Joe clutched his chest and feigned a pained expression. “Okay, ow.”

Andy rolled his eyes. “So, would you like the cupcake? We also have sandwiches, if you're jonesing for something salty.”

“I know I am,” Joe muttered, wagging his eyebrows suggestively at the barista, who swatted his arm.

“Joe, please have a seat, I'll bring you some water for your _thirst_.” Once Joe left laughing, he looked at Patrick once more. He could sense so much nervousness from the little guy, it was practically rolling off him in waves. Wherever he came from, he must've had a rough time—Andy could smell traces of blood and medicine on him. “Know what? Pick whatever drink you want. It's on the house.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Consider it a welcome and apology, since Joe's your neighbor,” Andy joked. “Whatever food you get, I'm charging Joe. Serves him right.”

“Oh, no, it's okay,” Patrick said, taking his wallet out.

“No, trust me it's fine,” Andy said, waving Patrick's offered money away. “It's fine, right Joe?” he called. Joe answered with a thumbs-up. “So. What'll it be?”

“I'll have a black coffee, then,” Patrick said, feeling slightly uncomfortable because his two new friends were picking up the tab for him. “Lots of sugar, please.”

“Okay. Cupcake or sandwich? I'd suggest getting the most expensive one, Joe rarely buys his friends stuff. Make the most of it,” Andy winked. When Patrick laughed, the barista picked up something _different_ in his voice. He couldn't place it, but hearing the shorter man laugh made him feel... calmer.

“I'll take two of the Green Tea cupcakes, then.”

 

***

 

Pete was in the middle of roasting Meagan about her Tinder profile when a certain voice stopped his heart. Well, not _technically_ , but Pete was always one for drama, and it did feel as if he was having a heart attack. The familiar, _breathlessly_ beautiful voice was laughing, and this time it wasn't just in his head. The voice was _here_. It was close.

“Pete, are you okay?” Meagan asked, noticing how Pete suddenly stopped talking shit.

“He's here,” Pete mumbled, frantically looking around to see who was laughing. “The voice, it's... it's not just in my head, he's _here_.” His heart was beating double-time in his chest. The universe was being kind to him, for once.

“Holy shit, really?” Meagan said, looking around as well. “Which one do you think it is?” Even in the relaxed midday, people were slowly filling up the little shop, stranger's voices low but loud enough for them to hear small swatches of conversation.

“I don't know, I can't...” Pete mumbled. The feeling in his chest wouldn't go away, he couldn't focus, he couldn't _see_ which one it was. He could remember the pale face from last night, but he couldn't see—

Holy _fuck_ , he finally saw.

In a table not far from the counter, seated across a taller guy with wild, curly hair, was the beautiful stranger with the heartbreaking voice, the one he saw in the marbles, his probable Siren. He was wearing a pale blue shirt and a black cardigan, the sleeves too long, his pale fingers peeking out. The stranger was wearing a hat, dark blond bangs sleek against his forehead underneath. From afar, Pete could see the light blush on the guy's face.

And he was looking right at him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suck at timelines ha ha haaaaa
> 
> Patrick sings "Angel of Small Death and the Codeine Scene" by Hozier.
> 
> Don't take my word for it, but there really are different kinds of witches! apparently it all depends on how you practice magic and it's so fascinating omg
> 
> Tell me if you spot any errors and i will fix them right away i want you guys to be happy. Leave a comment and kudos (if you're up to it)! I live for comments and suggestions frens!!
> 
> See you next tuesdaaaaaay


	3. The Shifting of Worlds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i know it's not a tuesday, but i had to post this early because i got early classes tomorrow so i need to hit the hay early uuuuugh sorry for being off-schedule yo (⋟﹏⋞)
> 
> aaaahh all of your comments are so nice, it's one of the reasons i keep posting stuff (the other reason is that i just really enjoy writing about these little dudes being gay). thank you from the bottom of my cold heart. UvU
> 
> also tHE GAY IS STARTING AND IT F U E L S ME
> 
> i hope you enjoy this chapter!! xx

“Oh, my God,” Patrick squeaked, ducking down and focusing all of his attention on his cup of coffee. “I messed up.”

Joe slowed down on his cupcake. “What?”

“The guy. With the dog. I was just looking at his dog, I _promise_ ,” Patrick hissed, hoping his ears weren't red because god _damn_ , his face felt on fire.

“You were checking him out?” Joe asked loudly, clearly missing Patrick's nonverbal cues of embarassment because he was pointing behind him with his thumb.

“ _I was not_ , _”_ Patrick snapped, voice nothing but a whisper. “Let's talk about something else, please, before I spontaneously combust.”

“Which one is he?”

“There's only one guy in here with a _dog_ , Joe, really?”

To Patrick's dismay, Joe whipped around to get a good look. After a few seconds of observing the guy in black (who was pretty good-looking, to be honest), he looked back at Patrick and announced in a less-than-obvious voice: “I never really pegged you as a guy who had a thing for witches, Patrick.”

The guy in black raised his head at the sound of “witches” and looked in their direction.

“Holy _smokes_ ,” Patrick muttered, wishing he had the ability to melt into the chair he was sitting on and become invisible forever. He leaned so far back in his chair and pulled his hat lower. His breath fogged up his glasses and he felt it was better this way—maybe he could pretend that the guy who caught him staring didn't exist.

Joe ate on, completely oblivious to the fact that said guy (the witch, the dog-man, whatever) was now looking at them. “Hey, no big deal, man. You do you. Everyone knows there's something so mysterious in witches. Maybe that's why. They seem so dangerous, right?”

“Please stop talking...”

“Andy introduced me to his witch friend once,” Joe rambled on. “She told me that drugs kinda help with visions and shit. She's actually the reason I smoke a lot of weed.”

“Joe, _please._ ”

Andy strode over to them, holding a pitcher of coffee. “Joe, for a clairvoyant, you're pretty dumb,” the barista commented. He took Patrick's cup and refilled it. “He can see the past and future, but he can't really tell when he's being an ass,” he continued, giving Patrick a sympathetic smile.

“For your information, I'm very sensitive!” Joe said, playing with the knot that held Andy's beige apron together at the base of his back. “And I'm great at detecting nonverbal cues.”

Andy laughed as he took Joe's empty saucer. “Right. That's also the reason we're not dating.”

“Nah, I know you're just playing hard to get,” Joe smoothly replied, finishing the cupcake. As Andy rolled his eyes and left, he kept his eyes on the barista's back. “Hate to watch you go, love to watch you leave...” he muttered with a smile. God bless Andy's crossfit habit.

Patrick sipped from his coffee and weighed his question before opening his mouth. “Can I ask—”

“If Andy and I are a thing?”

“You seem pretty close.”

Joe leaned back and stretched his arms behind his head. “We're close, but we're not together. Andy doesn't like me that way,” he said with a rueful smile. “And if he did, I would've known by now. But he doesn't, so... yeah.”

“Oh,” Patrick said, setting his cup down.

“Not to mention he's a werewolf. Attraction is usually reserved for their own kind. It's an exclusive wolf thing, I guess,” Joe added, remembering the last time he hung out with Andy and the other members of his pack. His guy friends were cool with him, but he could still recall the chills he got from a woman who had a crush on Andy—the way her eyes shifted from a friendly brown to a cold, bright blue once Andy wasn't looking was fucking _terrifying_. Add that to the fact that she had the strength to snap him in half... well. Joe didn't have a chance. “He's a great guy. I'd rather be this close than not at all, y'know? Beggars can't be choosers and shit.”

Patrick saw the faraway look in Joe's eyes when he finished talking about the barista and felt a tug in his chest. He continued drinking his coffee in silence, forgetting about the guy in black.

 

***

 

Pete bit his lower lip, frustrated. His probable Siren had ducked his head down, and now he couldn't project his charm at him. “Damn it...”

Meagan scrolled through her phone. “If you're using magic to get that guy to look at you again, please stop. It's unfair and creepy,” she droned.

“Your comment is unwanted and Otherphobic,” Pete said, making a face at her. He turned his attention to his half-eaten croissant and took a bite.

The woman snorted and slipped her phone back into her bag. “If you really want to talk to him, go ahead! Like, look at you. Your clothes are nice, you took a shower, _and_ you have a dog. There's no way he can say no to Bowie.”

“I... don't know...” Pete said in between bites. Even though he'd been through therapy and medication, talking to new people—especially the ones he thought were very attractive—still freaked him out. “Gives me stage fright just thinking about it. I mean look at him, he's... wow.”

The woman stretched her arms and discreetly turned to see Pete's target clearly. “Boy in the hat, right?”

“Yup.”

She noted the said guy's body language towards the person he was talking to—pretty friendly, but no attraction there. And he looked like he listened well, the way he leaned forward as his taller friend spoke. From afar, Meagan could see that this guy was a sweetheart, with his cardigan and hipster glasses and rosy cheeks. “He looks like a sweetheart. You should totally go talk to him. And before you freak out, I bet my ass that the man he's talking to isn't his boyfriend or anything,” she said, turning back.

“I don't know, Meg. What if the stars aren't in order for, you know, a conversation with him or something?” Pete reasoned.

“Pete, it's in the middle of the day, what the fuck.”

“You know what I mean,” Pete pressed. “Like... What if today isn't the right time for us to meet? What if something happens—”

“Oh, come _on!_ ”

“—or what if the universe decides that talking to him isn't a good idea and he ends up _hating_ me—”

“That is bullshit.”

Pete shut up. It was true, he was just talking shit. He was just... truly, unfortunately scared _shitless_. There was something about his stranger than made him feel like a shaking Jenga tower. “I just. Can't.”

Meagan sighed. She reached out and took Pete's hand. “Remember the first time we met?”

The witch flashed back to a year ago, when he met Meagan at a bar and tripped over his words in attempts to say hi. “Yeah, it sucked,” he groaned, remembering how the woman thought he was having some sort of a seizure the way he stammered.

“Kind of. Remember how you told me you thought I was way too hot for you? And you apologized for even talking to me in the first place?”

“Where are you going with this? Because this is seriously just giving me more nerves.”

“What I'm saying is you should stop all of that. You're better than that, Pete, you shouldn't think anybody's out of your league,” Meagan said, squeezing his hand. “You're doing so well already, and I'm very happy for you. But you have to stop thinking less of yourself. Go talk to him. You can charm people without using your magic. Worked for me.” She let go of his hand and checked the time. “Since it's almost noon, I need to get the page back to the archives. Walk me out?” she asked, standing up and slinging her bag over her shoulder.

“Let's go out together, I feel like going home anyway,” Pete said, standing up as well. He slapped his thigh to get Bowie's attention—the dog, on the other hand, had dozed off and wasn't too pleased about waking up and walking out. “Come on, Bowie. Don't be a diva. Let's get your sleepy ass home.”

The three walked towards the door. Or, at least Pete thought they were.

Meagan bypassed a few tables and headed for the counter. Which was only a few feet away from the probable Siren and his friend. Pete felt rooted to the spot near the door when the woman smoothly walked right _behind his stranger, oh my God_ , lungs seemingly stopping.

“Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz III, come over here and be polite,” Meagan called, to Pete's chagrin. When the witch shot her a look that said _what the fuck are you doing?_ , she flicked her eyes at the stranger and his friend, signalling Pete to come closer.

If Meagan wasn't his friend, she would be so _dead_ right now. Pete felt his face burn with the heat of a million suns, and he wasn't sure what the woman was up to, but still he walked towards her, Bowie in tow. “Are you seriously asking to get hexed right now, Camper?” Pete hissed once he was next to her, the smile on his face deadly and fake.

Meagan smiled knowingly. “He was looking at you,” she said. A barista with brown hair and feminine features came up to the counter with a smile. “You're Ryan, right?”

“Yes, can I help you with anything?”

“I was wondering if you could call Andy? Big guy with the ink? My friend wanted to talk to him,” Meagan smiled.

Once Ryan disappeared into the back room to look for Andy, Pete huffed. “Okay, you are seriously the worst friend to ever exist right now, Camper, I _swear—_ ”

“Common friend,” she said through her teeth as Andy emerged from the back room. “Hey! Thanks for being so understanding. Pete can be such an idiot sometimes.”

The witch gave the barista an awkward smile. “Sorry, again.”

“Oh, and he had something to ask you,” Meagan said, glancing at her watch. Shit, it was almost 12:30. “I'm sorry, but I really have to go.”

“Meagan, what—?” Okay, now Pete was really lost.

“You know, about new friends?” Meagan said while doing the best to look as inconspicuous as she nodded her head in the hatted stranger's direction. “And getting to know them without using underhanded means, if you know what I _mean_.”

In the corner of Pete's vision, he could see that the stranger was sneaking curious looks at him, pretending to look at the display of cupcakes as he sipped his coffee. God, he was cuter up close. Apparently, Bowie thought he was cute too—the dog sniffed around the stranger's chair, looked up at him, and sat by his feet. His thoughts were interrupted by Meagan roughly ruffling his hair.

“Bye, Petey. Don't worry. You look hot,” Meagan assured, beaming. “Thanks again, Andy!” she continued, jogging to the door.

“Have a great day!” When the bell on the closing door chimed, Andy chuckled. “Your girl's a firecracker. Must be fun.”

“Yeah, she's a riot. But we're not... you know. Together. Well, before. But now we're... not,” Pete said. After a few seconds, he inwardly cringed, hoping the stranger wasn't put off by the amount of affectionate teasing he and Meagan had. He thought it was healthy to be friends with your ex, and Meagan was a great friend, after all, so why the fuck not? Pete cleared his throat. “Can I ask for a favor?”

The barista wiped his hands on his apron and looked at Pete warily. “Depends.”

 _Here goes nothing_. “I was wondering if,” Pete trailed, dropping his voice to a whisper, “I could ask for the name of the guy in the hat behind me. It's not for anything weird, I promise. I saw you talking to him earlier, and I just. Yeah.”

Andy inhaled, taking in Pete's scent. The witch smelled of coffee and candle smoke, a tell that he was nervous—somehow, to him, nervous people always smelled like something burning. “Patrick,” the barista said, “His name is Patrick. But I don't get why you couldn't ask him yourself.”

Pete didn't know how to respond to that, so he nervously laughed. “Thanks, I guess?” He watched as Andy smiled at him the same way Meagan did—knowingly, a sign that they knew Pete obviously wasn't the most subtle person in the planet. He tapped the countertop and turned to leave after feebly smiling at Andy. “I'll be going now, sorry.”

“Say hi to him!” Andy said. Clearly, Patrick had also been checking Pete out ever since he and his friend approached the counter, but he left Pete to figure that out himself. “Something tells me he's also feeling shy.”

“What, are you serious? I can't, and he might think it's weird—”

“Um, excuse me?”

Jesus Christ on a bike, Pete thought his heart leaped into his throat at the voice. It was the stranger, the Siren (he was, Pete was _sure_ , somehow), and he was _right there_. Talking to him, hand outstretched as if to touch his shoulder. Up close, the Siren— _Patrick—_ was something else. He looked unreal, like a porcelain doll, only with more warmth and depth and everything that seemed missing in Pete's world. And his eyes. Even through the glasses, his eyes looked like they really did have water in them, irises so blue Pete forgot all about the color of the sea.

Fuck the sea. Fuck the sky. If Pete could only see the world in one color alone, he would choose to see everything in the color of Patrick's eyes. “Hi...” the witch managed to say, not knowing what to do next.

Patrick withdrew his hand as soon as the man turned around. “That's your dog, right?”

“Y-yeah, he's mine.” Shit, Pete still felt overwhelmed.

Patrick smiled. “I just wanted to say he's beautiful.”

 _So are you_ , the witch mused, admiring how Patrick smiled. There was so much warmth and—wait, why was Patrick looking at him like that?

Patrick only blinked at him in shock. Pete blinked back, before slowly realizing he'd been talking out loud. “I mean—! I-I am so sorry, I didn't mean to make it weird or anything, holy _fuck._ ” God. Being struck by lightning would hurt less than the burning in Pete's face right now.

To his surprise (and relief), Patrick laughed. And what music it was.

“It's fine. Caught me off guard, but thank you,” Patrick giggled. “I'm Patrick. And... I'm guessing you're Peter? Or Lewis?” he guessed, shrugging and waiting for Pete to respond.

 _May the universe grace Meagan Jane Camper with good fucking luck,_ Pete thought. Apparently, Patrick listened and _remembered_ when Meagan called him by his full name. He tried to ignore the butterflies in his stomach to reply. “Pete. I go by Pete. Pete Wentz.”

Andy cleared his throat, startling the two. “If you guys don't mind, I think there might be a line behind you.” He tiptoed to give the three people who had lined up behind Patrick an apologetic look. “Sorry, guys.”

Embarassed, Pete and Patrick moved away from the counter and towards Patrick's table. “Pete, this is Joe, by the way,” he said, taking a seat. “Joe, meet Pete.”

Patrick watched as Joe pegged Pete with one of his stares, the uncomfortable one that made him feel like an ant under a magnifying glass, and waited to see Joe's reaction to his new friend. Despite only meeting him the night before, Joe was one of the few people he trusted in downtown LA right now, so it was a relief that Joe finally cracked a smile at his new friend and shook his hand.

“'Sup, man, I'm Joe. Cool dog,” Joe commented, noting the obedience of said dog, who just padded its way towards Pete's legs and sat like a guard. “Gotta say, I expected a cat familiar with you. You seemed more like a black cat kind of guy.”

“Joe's a clairvoyant,” Patrick said, tone apologetic.

Pete smiled and said it was all good, but there was something in the way Joe looked at him earlier. It reminded him of his Aunt Beth, the oldest and wisest in the Wentz coven—he used to watch in awe when he was younger, when she taught him how to stare into the flame of a candle and see the future. There was a muted intensity in Joe's aura that made him feel small again. “That's the coolest. The only clairvoyant I've ever really met was my aunt. How does it... happen?”

Joe rubbed his eyes. “I see mostly stuff in the near future. Like, my range is pretty much a few hours to two days from now. But the farthest I've seen was a week. That was a trip,” he laughed, remembering how he had to sleep for a day and a half because the onslaught of visions were just too much. “Don't turn your bathroom into a hotbox when you're doing weed. It's going to fuck you up.”

“He also helped me find my keys last night,” Patrick said.

“That's a story I want to know more about,” Pete smiled, leaning with his elbows on the table.

 

***

 

Now Pete didn't mean to stay at _Pretty Odd_ for more than an hour (two, tops) but he ended up staying until the afternoon crowd started slowly pouring in. The small shop switched their morning sandwiches for pasta and modest sliders to accommodate customers who were having a late lunch or super-early dinner. Conversation flowed freely between the three of them, with Andy bringing them glasses of iced tea (courtesy of Joe, thank you very much) as Joe told them stories of his misadventures with weed and “other stuff” to strengthen his visions. But Pete started to notice how Patrick never really said anything about himself. Sure, he made a few jokes and side comments, but that was it.

So when Joe was just about done with asking Pete about whether or not covens held orgies in forests between seasons (seriously, who even thinks that _actually_ happens?) Pete took the opportunity to ask Patrick more about himself. “How have I not seen you around before? I mean, I've lived in LA for a while, but...”

“I live in an apartment by a record store, just downtown,” Patrick said, unsure of what else he could say to quell Pete's curiosity. “But that's probably because I'm, you know. Painfully average. And very short.” He hoped a self-deprecating comment would help switch the topic because he was starting to feel a bit antsy. Sure, Pete was a stranger he met for the first time today, and talking to him felt like continuing a conversation with a close friend—no hitches, whatsoever. But... talking about where he was before he got to the city? He just wasn't ready.

Deep down, Patrick feared that he probably would never _be_ ready to talk about it.

“He's from Chicago,” Joe said, cutting in. “And all that jazz,” he added, waving his hands Roxy Hart-style. “Dude, your dog's drooling on my shoes.”

“Shit, sorry.” Pete reached down to gently rub Bowie's back to wake him. When the dog startled and stood to sit beside the witch, Pete looked back at Joe and winced. “Sorry.” When Joe shrugged and took his wallet out of his back pocket, Pete tried his best not to stare at Patrick. The guy had his hands in his lap, the fingers of his right hand picking at the reddened cuticles of the left. Add that to the fact that he watched the other man's shoulders sag in relief after Joe swiftly changed the subject, and... well. Pete didn't know if he was going to be flattered or worried with how nervous he made Patrick feel. “So. I have to take Bowie home, he whines when he's tired,” he said, feeling lame.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Patrick replied, letting go of his own hands.

“Yup.” Pete cringed at how this moment reminded him of the end of a first date with someone new, when both parties are standing at the doorstep at the end of the night, expecting a kiss goodbye but not knowing how to say it. “So, uh... I'll see you around?”

“We'll probably end up hanging around here most of the time, so yeah,” Joe said, giving the witch a salute. It was getting really entertaining, watching his two new friends just brimming with warmth for each other, but Joe could only take so much of the lingering looks Pete and Patrick were swapping. When Pete finally left, he smirked at Patrick.

“What are you smiling at?”

Joe kept smirking.

“Seriously. You're freaking me out.”

Joe was grinning now.

“... You're thinking I should follow him.”

“Technically, I'm thinking that you'll regret it if you don't,” Joe shrugged.

“But he has a girlfriend already,” Patrick groaned, remembering the tall blonde Pete was with, the one with the perfect toned everything. She seemed really close to Pete, and the guy regarded her with a familiarity that only a couple could manage. A bitter taste filled his mouth when he remembered how _good_ they looked together.

Joe snorted and laughed. “Dude. Patrick. You're right about one thing—Pete has a thing for blondes, but that chick wasn't his girlfriend. I swear. God, you crack me up.”

Patrick blushed at the “Pete prefers blondes” comment. After a moment of silence (and a suggestive eyebrow raise from Joe), he caved and stood up. “Fine. I'm doing it. God, am I really doing this?”

“It's been more than five minutes, man. Go before he gets on a bus or something.”

The shorter man adjusted the hat on his head, rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and went outside. When the door closed behind him, Andy approached the table with a tray and started cleaning up the cups and saucers.

“What are you up to, Trohman?” the barista asked, piling the saucers carefully. He hated it when they slid and scraped against each other—his acute sense of hearing could only take so much of the sounds of glass.

“Not up to anything,” Joe replied, feigning innocence.

“No, I know you. You get this look in your eyes when you're up to something. Whatever you saw in those two, spit it out,” Andy scolded.

The clairvoyant gave in and leaned forward, grinning. “They're special. I saw something a while ago, like a flash of it, something, whatever—but it's _big_.”

“Well, they must be soulmates or something?” Andy shrugged. “Is this your first time matching people up?”

“What? No!” Joe lowered his voice to a whisper. “What they're going to have? It's something that shouldn't even exist.”

Now _this_ was getting interesting. Andy sat in Patrick's seat—his shift was over in a bit, anyway, he could spend the last few minutes of it talking to Joe. “I don't follow.”

“It's Patrick. _He's_ the one who's not supposed to exist." Joe looked around to check if anyone was eavesdropping. "He's the only Siren left.”

 _Well, shit,_ Andy thought. That explained a lot.

 

***

 

 _have u returned d page yet??_ Pete texted Meagan. He sent her a message earlier that she should text him once the page was returned, so he'd know if she was caught or something. So far, it's been four hours since they last saw each other and the woman hasn't texted him yet. It was giving him nerves. _yo, r u still alive??? kinda freaking out here. :/_

Thankfully, his phone buzzed in less than two minutes.

_sorry, phone died. yeah im alive haha. currently watching GOT._

_did u get caught???_

_nope. thanks for asking!! ^3^_

Pete laughed as he walked. _tbh I just wanted to know if my spell worked. I dont rlly care about u :p_

_FUCK U xoxo_

Pete relaxed at that. Meagan was fine, his spells had worked, and the page was back in the archives. He looked to his side to see if Bowie was still following him.

When he didn't see the white dog beside _and_ behind him, his heart dropped to his stomach. Pete scanned the street frantically, panic fucking with his focus, making it difficult to sense the dog. Feeling hopeless, Pete opened his mouth and calle out. “Bowie?” He waited until the dog came running—usually calling was the trick. When the familiar white fur was still nowhere in sight, he tried again, louder this time, running and trying to avoid bumping into people. Where the fuck would Bowie go? Pete hadn't walked too fast, right? He could have been stolen—but who steals dogs in Los Angeles? And Bowie wasn't a dumb dog, he was a witch's _familiar,_ for fuck's sake, he could sense people's auras and intentions, no one could possibly bribe him. _“Bowie!”_ he called again, fully shouting now. Fuck the people who were giving him weird looks—his dog was a part of his _soul_ , and he'd be damned if—

_Oh._

In the middle of the sidewalk in front of an antiques shop and a hot dog stand was Patrick, pale and resplendent in his red-cheeked glory, crouched and petting Bowie's head. From this far, Pete could see Patrick's little smile, and how he was talking to the dog.

Never had Pete wanted to become a dog so bad in his life.

“Bowie!” Pete called, jogging to where the two were. “Fuck, I thought you were... Where've you been, buddy?” he gasped, only realizing that he'd been out of breath.

“When you guys were crossing the street, a Prius cut him off,” Patrick said, still rubbing behind Bowie's ear. “You walked so fast, he couldn't see you through the crowd. I think he thought of going back to _Pretty Odd_. Lucky we both walked into each other, huh!” the shorter man continued, more to Bowie than to Pete.

“Yeah, lucky,” Pete mumbled. He shot Bowie a mean look, feeling betrayed. Bowie was supposed to be his wingman. “I'm getting you a leash, you troublemaker.”

Patrick giggled as he stood up. “At least you found him!”

“Yeah.”

And the after-date, kiss-expectation feeling returned, settling on Pete's shoulders. “So, uh, where are you going? Where's Joe?”

Patrick blushed (and how pathetic he felt). “I was about to follow you, actually.” Before Pete could speak, he continued. “Not in a stalker-y way! I just. I didn't get your number, and you're a pretty cool guy, so I figured, why not, right? And I don't have many friends in the city, so I thought...”

The witch watched as Patrick rambled on, his smile growing. It was rude, but he kinda stopped listening after Patrick said he was trying to follow him. He found it endearing, how the man was now blushing scarlet, and he was _still_ trying to defend his stand about not being a total weirdo, hand gestures and all. Pete just couldn't help himself anymore. “Go out with me.”

“... and I'm so sorry if—what?”

Now it was Pete's turn to feel hot around the collar, but he pushed on. If he didn't get this all out right now, later on he might just lose all the bravado he needed, so fuck it. “Go out with me. Anywhere. The record store, park, the marina, anywhere. Just... let's go somewhere. Together.”

Flustered as fuck, Patrick took a few seconds to process what Pete just said. “Right now?”

“Yeah.”

“Anywhere?”

“Anywhere. Your choice.”

Patrick knew he should be wary of guys like Pete, who looked like they broke hearts for a living. But he felt an unfolding within him, a sense of assurance and security, like Pete was someone he could and would be able to trust for a long, _long_ while, and that was honestly all it took. He took in Pete's whiskey-colored eyes and felt his entire world shift around him. “Okay.”

Pete smiled, and all of a sudden the ever-present noise of anxiety in his head fell silent. All he could hear, see, smell, and hopefully _touch_ , was Patrick. “Okay,” he repeated.

Back in _Pretty Odd_ , Joe smiled to himself as he saw the entire moment happen with the satisfaction of an old key slipping into a lock after decades. “I'm a fucking genius,” he said as Andy rolled his eyes fondly at him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha have any of you ever experienced what meagan did? like when your crush is nearby and your friends just randomly call out your FULL NAME so your crush notices?? mine do, so shoutout to my squad u guys are assholes haha ( ͡☉ ͜ʖ ͡☉)
> 
> i love it when i make a character pine for another one in a super obvious way, it makes me feel like god hehe... jk joe gets a lot more love in the next few chapters i promise!!
> 
> more brendon and more gay in the next chapter!! okay they're kinda the same bUT STILL
> 
> let me know how you feel about this (kinda short) chapter in the comments! see you guys next week UvU


	4. Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fuck it's February and i've only written the title of my thesis preface :)) so just a heads up, i won't be uploading a chapter for next Tuesday because my schedule's getting tighter. :/ i'll do my best to squeeze writing this fic in, because i really wanna finish this, and because i've outlined basically this whole au so i don't want all that to go to waste. sorry pls don't hate me!!
> 
> to make up for it, i'll be uploading shorter fics. they could be in this au, and they could also stand alone. you guys decide. drop me a line on tumblr (http://baninabread.tumblr.com/) for your requests and i'll do my best to write 'em!!
> 
> now that the bad news is over, on with the chapter UvU enjoy!

Sarah Orzechowski was pissed. Like, how could she _not_ be pissed? Her best friend's been singing love songs for the past two hours now. Brendon had a beautiful voice, and hearing him sing was always a delight, but her ears could only take so much of _The Girl from Ipanema._ Plus, sound traveled faster and stronger in water, and everyone knew that merfolk's voices rang bright and loud through _anything_. “For fuck's sake, Brendon, who is it this time?” she growled, taking some seaweed and rolling it up into a ball. They weren't earplugs, but right now anything would do. When Brendon stopped singing and grinned at her, Sarah winced. “No. No, no, no, don't tell me—”

“It's a human,” Brendon giggled, swimming in circles around his friend. “You should've seen him, Sarah, he had these pretty brown eyes, and pretty hair, and—”

“Everyone thinks everything's pretty when they're 'in love',” Sarah deadpanned, using air quotes.

In response, Brendon flicked his tail and drove a cloud of bubbles at her face. “Fuck you. And it's not just that. He really was attractive.”

“I don't know, Bee. Your standards are pretty much nonexistent.”

“I find that offensive!”

Sarah swam to the smooth sandbar beneath them and lay on her back. “You're easy. Truth hurts.” Brendon pouted and mirrored her actions, letting himself sink onto the sand with a bit more force, creating a puff around him. “Look, Bee. I don't get why you like humans so much. I mean they're fun and all, and they have really cool stuff, but... They want too much of everything,” Sarah said. “Remember the last one?”

Brendon grimaced, because _of course_ , he remembered. He had a long scar on the right side of his tail to remind him. “He was an accident.”

“You were stubborn, and you got what you deserved.”

“Harsh!”

Sarah rolled her eyes.

“How was I to know he was a harvester? He didn't really look the type!” Brendon defended, propping himself up on an elbow. In his defense, the guy really didn't look like the kind of person who collected mermaid scales. Consider him blindsided. “He tricked me.”

“And what did you do afterwards?”

Brendon wrinkled his nose at the memory.

“What'd you do, again?”

“Fine, I threw a temper tantrum, sue me!” Brendon huffed, throwing his hands up. “It wasn't that bad.”

“Bee, you're the reason we can't swim around some parts of the Vegas coast. You went _berserk_.”

Brendon curled in on himself, hugging his tail close. “It was all his fault...”

Sarah sighed. “Face it, Bee. Humans... aren't for us. They're rash, and violent, and selfish. Everything they touch, they corrupt or destroy.” She leaned over and put a hand over Brendon's chest. “Including this.”

Brendon sighed once Sarah took her hand back. As much as he hated admitting it, she had a point. Humans were dangerous, and falling for one would always be a risk. They stole things from so many Others, and they could kill for no reason. They killed _Patrick's_ parents for no reason. What happened to the boy after that was worse than anything Brendon could think of.

But still, he loved. “I don't know, Sarah, it's like... There's something about them that's just too magnetizing. It's like... I don't know, like...”

“The moon?” Sarah suggested, looking up. They were in deep waters, so everything was darker than it actually was. Sunlight in the rippled water looked like moonlight to them. Sometimes there rarely was a difference.

“Yeah,” Brendon whispered. The two lay in silence, watching the waves swell and roll above them, feeling the faint push and pull of the current. “Do you actually believe in the legends?”

“Which ones?”

“The ones that say where we came from. The Woman in the moon ones?”

“Yeah. But part of me also believes we could've been from humans.”

“Huh?”

“Evolution.”

“Oh.”

“Maybe that's why you're so attracted to them,” Sarah said, closing her eyes. Her tail flexed against the sand, a cloud forming around her pale blue fins. “Maybe it's because a part of you wants to go home.”

Brendon didn't speak after that.

 

***

 

“Hold on,” Andy said. He'd agreed to walk Joe to his apartment, under the condition that Joe had to tell him all he knew about Patrick and whatever “cosmic connection” (Joe's words, not his) he was about to have with Pete. As they walked, Andy undid the first two buttons under his collar. As a werewolf, he usually ran warmer than other people, so the collared shirts _Pretty Odd_ required baristas to wear were kind of a necessary evil for him. “So Patrick's an _actual_ Siren? Not a hybrid or anything?”

“Keep your voice down, man. And yeah. Purest of the pure,” Joe said. “Could you stop messing with your buttons? You're making _me_ want to mess with your buttons.”

“Shut up. Where's he actually from?”

Joe wrinkled his nose. “From what I saw, he really was from Chicago, but it was a bad place. I couldn't see anything else, he keeps that memory very guarded.”

Andy shoved his hands in his pockets. “He smelled of blood and medicine earlier, when I first got a real whiff of him.” He looked up at Joe. “Do you think he killed someone?”

“Patrick? I doubt it. Have you seen the guy? He's like a kitten. He wears a fedora without being ironic, for God's sakes.”

“Hey, don't underestimate the little guys,” Andy said, swatting Joe's arm. “For some reason, the shorter people are, the more anger they have. It's like all this hot air compressed in a small jar.”

Joe laughed at this, and swung an arm over Andy's shoulders. Thankfully, the shorter man didn't object to being pulled close. “Height's always a touchy subject around you, isn't it.”

“Fuck off, you smell like smoke and bad decisions.”

“I see the future, I never make bad decisions.”

The werewolf raised an eyebrow at Joe. “Really. Then why haven't you told anyone about Patrick? Someone important, like a research facility or something.” And then, Andy watched as his friend's smile fucking _fell_. His eyes were wide and unfocused. “Joe?”

“No one can know,” Joe muttered. He couldn't see the road in front of him now—fuck, he couldn't even see how Andy was concerned at how lost he looked, all of a sudden. All he saw were white walls, white, sterile _everything_. In his mind's eye, figures were passing by him, passing through him, holding sheets of metal with bottles on top, and—

Patrick. Tied to a bed.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Joe hissed, rubbing his eyes. That vision ended rather abruptly, everything going up in a painful flash of white and an echo of Patrick's screams. Andy was the only one keeping him from falling over.

“You got lost in there,” Andy said, worry dripping from his voice, because at this point in their friendship, it was kind of a stupid question to ask if Joe was okay after a vision. He'd learned that some visions weren't gentle, and some weren't even worth seeing. Joe would never be okay after those kinds. “Wanna tell me what you saw?”

Joe bent over and put his hands on his knees. He tried to control his breathing, taking three seconds before exhaling. His head was still spinning, meaning oh _fuck,_ he was having a panic attack. Fabulous. “'M fine, just gotta... fuck, my back... _shit..._ ”

Without warning, Joe felt himself get thrown over Andy's shoulder as the man walked to the nearest bench. “Not helping!” he rasped, slapping Andy's back.

“Shh, don't worry. You need to have a seat, calm down,” Andy said, walking as if Joe weighed nothing at all. “I'm not going to drop you,” he added, feeling the guy's legs tense up against his chest. He set the taller man down on a waiting shed bench gently, and sat beside him.

“Fuckin' warn a guy before doing that!” Joe wheezed. The panic was gone, but his chest still felt tight. He leaned forward and breathed into his cupped hands (since he didn't carry a paper bag or something to, you know, _panic_ into), taking his time, because it's been a while since he had an attack.

Andy hated seeing Joe like this. He raised his hand and settled it on the back of Joe's neck, his thumb rubbing a small circle gently on the man's jugular. He could feel Joe's heartbeat slow down a bit, but he didn't let go until Joe sat upright. “You okay now?”

Joe nodded, eyes closed, breathing even. Andy's touch would always help him calm down. He was pretty convinced the guy's hands were magic. 

“Do you want me to let go of you yet?”

“No, keep your hand there.” Joe took another deep breath, and collected himself. “Patrick's on the run from something. I don't know who or what, but it's... it's fucked up, man. Just... God, that was fucking terrible.”

“What did you see?”

“Just like you said. There were medicines, and-and blood in jars, and doors,” Joe narrated, feeling a chill run up his spine. “It was like a hospital, or a—”

“A sanatorium?” Andy offered.

“Kinda. It's just really _bad._ ”

The two sat there, Andy with his hand on the back of Joe's neck, Joe still reeling from his vision, conflicted. They wanted to know more about where Patrick came from, but at the same time, they worried. Some things were meant to be kept as secrets, after all.

 

***

 

Pete and Patrick ended up at a pizza place near Pete's residential area. So far, Pete knew and was sure of these things about Patrick Stump:

One: Patrick made musical arrangements and he sold them to half-bit “artists” trying to make it big in the LA music scene. Kind of like a ghostwriter, but with music.

Two: Patrick had a cousin in the city, but they're not _actually_ related.

Three: Patrick wanted a dog of his own, but his landlord didn't allow pets in the building.

Four: Patrick loved—no, _adored_ (he used the word himself) David Bowie and Elvis Costello. And, no, unfortunately, he would never dare to sing in front of an audience. Well, aside, from his play-cousin.

And five: Patrick didn't like talking about where he came from.

Pete didn't press the issue. He was just happy he got to know him better.

“What about you?” Patrick asked, picking up a piece of garlic bread. “So far, it's just been me answering your questions.”

Pete opened his arms and grinned. “Fire away. I'll be your open book.”

Patrick leaned forward. Under their table, Bowie's tail thumped against his foot. “Okay,” Patrick trailed, suddenly at a loss for things to ask. See, this was the thing with asking questions in a forced way—you never really know _what_ you want to know. Patrick waved a hand in defeat. “I got nothing.”

“What, you don't want to know anything about me?”

“No, it's just that the question has to come into itself on its own!” He popped the garlic bread into his mouth. “It's like being asked what you want for your birthday. Someone asks, and then you forget your whole wish list, so you end up saying the dumbest thing. Same with questions.”

“I'm cool with dumb questions,” Pete smiled. Patrick was warming up to him, and he didn't have to use his charms on him.

“Fine. Pete Wentz, do you... like...” Patrick said, looking around. His eyes finally settled on a roll of gouda on the display by the counter. “... Cheese?”

Pete let out a loud, braying laugh, startling Bowie and making the other customers look at them. “What the fuck kind of a question is that?” He laughed once more, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. “Cheese... I just...”

It was lovely, watching Pete laugh. Apparently, Pete was a full-body laugher, shaking as he giggled, slapping his lap and hunching over. It was a bit ridiculous, but it was _contagious_ , and in seconds, Patrick found himself laughing, too.

“That's the dumbest question I've ever heard, oh, man!”

“You said I could ask anything!”

When their laughter dissolved into giggles, Pete sighed and tried to put on a straight face. “Why, yes, Patrick Stump. I like... cheese,” he said, the end of his sentence fraying into a giggle again. “Next question?”

“Okay. You're a witch, right?”

“Yup.”

“Why do you live alone? I mean, you have a coven. Why don't you stay with them?” Patrick asked. “You don't have to answer that if you don't feel like it.”

“Patrick Stump, are you kicking me out of the city?” Pete joked.

Patrick threw a crumb at Pete, who laughed and dodged it. “No, I'm just curious. I've met a couple of witches before, and I know they either have a family of their own already, or they're super rich and they live in a compound.”

Pete hummed and nodded. “I just felt like moving out. Wanted to try being independent, making it big in my own way. So I left Wilmette, couchsurfed here and there, got myself a job waiting tables for a bit... that's basically it,” he said with a shrug. “I go home to see my folks around the holidays—winter solstices, sabbaths, stuff like that. But the weekly gatherings? I can't. Driving for hours is not my jam.”

Pete's answer set off a chain of more questions, like what he did for a living and how magic really worked. Patrick didn't know which one fascinated him more: the fact that Pete was a writer, or how he explained how witches just learned how to harness the energy around them. He couldn't help but smile at how the other man spoke with so much passion and respect for the art he practiced, at how his eyes glowed golden in the afternoon light that filtered in through the thin curtains of the place. Pete had so much _warmth_ in him. Patrick was both drawn to and envious of it.

“... and basically, people _can_ learn to become a witch. It's like a way of life, you know? Some peope are born into it, but it doesn't really make a difference. You just gotta have that respect for the Universe and everything else, because magic, it's... everywhere,” Pete rambled. He noticed Patrick smiling at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Patrick said, shaking his head.

“Come on, what? You're still smiling, is there something in my teeth?”

“No, it's just... really nice.”

“What is?” Okay, now Pete really was curious. Because Patrick's been smiling the entire time he started talking about witchcraft, and as cute as he was, it kind of threw Pete off. In a good way, of course.

Patrick considered his answer before opening his mouth. “Everything.”

And truly, everything was. The two shared what seemed to be the nth smile of the afternoon, grinning at each other as if they had a secret that the world would never know. They never said it out loud, but somehow both of them knew that they were just happy in each other's presence. Content, even.

Soon their pizza came (to Pete's delight), and more conversation took place. Patrick carefully took a slice, biting his bottom lip at how the cheese stretched like string. “This looks great.”

“I know, right!” Pete said, mouth full of pizza. “Ih fuhing goob!” He chewed and swallowed, and spoke again. “Seriously, super-fucking good. This place is one of the few reasons I get up and go out, honestly.”

“Don't you go see an editor, or something? Since you're a writer?”

Pete finished off his slice and reached for one more. “Nah. I currently write for a column in a local tabloid. _Practice Magic with Pete_. You'd be surprised how much writing weekly's worth.”

Patrick laughed. “No way.”

“Yeah! People send in their problems, I give them advice on how to use the right magic to deal with them.”

“ _'Dear Pete, my lover's cheating on me, what do I do?'”_ Patrick asked, throwing a hand on his forehead like a damsel in distress. _“'My heart's breaking, please answer soon. Hugs and kisses.'_ That kind of letter? _”_

Pete snorted. “Dude, you have no idea how many times I've had to answer that kind of question!”

“Go on, then—what would Pete do?”

Pete cleared his throat. _“'Dear Brokenhearted: dump his ass.'”_ When Patrick started laughing, he continued. _“You don't need magic for that. All you need are his clothes, some matches, and lighter fluid. Xoxo, Pete.”_

Patrick was laughing hard now, the pizza slice on his plate forgotten. “You did not answer anyone like that.”

“It would surprise you how variations of that answer has been published!” That got Patrick laughing again. Once the other man calmed down, he spoke again. “But yeah. The only 'real' writing I've ever done was a book about my childhood nightmares. Like, actual, _legit_ writing? With an editor? I don't swing that way. Editors are too expensive.”

“Ah. Which way do you swing, then?”

_Woah_ there. That caught Pete off guard. “What?”

“What?” Patrick mirrored, all the while ignoring how he wanted to turn back time and cut his tongue off. Why the fuck did he say that? Did Brendon rub off on him or something?

Pete smirked impishly at the man, who was now blushing. “Gotta hand it to you, that was _slick_.”

“No, it wasn't. Okay! Moving on—”

“We should start calling you Slick 'Trick.”

“Oh, God.”

“The Trickster. _El Slicko_.”

“You're not making sense,” Patrick replied, going back to his pizza, trying (but failing miserably) to ignore Pete's delight.

The witch took his third slice. “Personally speaking,” he said, opening his mouth wide and slowly slipping in as much of the slice as he could (relishing Patrick's flustered expression), and then biting it off, “labels don't matter. In terms of which way my door swings, I'm pretty much a revolving door, I guess. I like who I like.” When Pete noticed Patrick's silence, he tossed him an olive.

“Rude,” Patrick quipped, keeping his eyes off of Pete.

“Are you being quiet because you think I'm a slut?”

“No, what the heck. Anything's cool.” _And I'm still mentally castrating myself for asking that last question, thanks,_ Patrick thought.

“Come on, more questions!”

“I'm trying to eat, man, chill!”

“Ask me probing questions, or else I'll ask _you_.”

It was that glint in Pete's eyes that made Patrick speak up. God knows what kinds of questions he was thinking of asking, and Patrick didn't want to reveal too much. “Fine. Uh... ” he looked around once more. Joe's comment popped in his mind, the thing about Pete and _blondes._ The obvious question sat heavy and unpleasant on the tip of Patrick's tongue, but he couldn't just ask him something like that. That would be too obvious. “What's your type?”

When Pete's eyebrows shot up, Patrick mentally kicked himself. _So much for subtlety, jackass_ , he thought. “I mean—”

“Like I said, _anyone_.”

_Fuck it_. “How about blondes?”

Pete squinted at the ceiling, backtracking the faces of all his exes. “Now that you mention it...” Okay, so his latest ex was Meagan, who was actually a brunette, but they happened when she dyed her hair blonde. Then before that was Ashlee, who really was blonde. Before her was Mikey, from a coven in New Jersey—Pete didn't count Jeanae, because she was kind of like his “secret shame”, his mom had been pissed at finding out about them. Not to mention the one-night stands in between said exes. “Huh. Well, wha'dya know.” He focused on Patrick again. “I _do_ have a thing for blondes.”

Patrick had no idea what to do with this information. Except maybe do a little dance in his head. “Cool.”

“How about you, Trickster?” Pete asked, picking this moment to be bold. He pointed at his own bleach-blond hair. “Do you like blondes, too?”

“I wouldn't know,” Patrick smiled. “I don't have a type, I guess.”

“Come on. You've gotta have one. Pretty thing like you?”

The shorter man laughed. “No, really. I've never really... been around, that much.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Girlfriend? Boyfriend?”

When Elisa's face flashed in his mind, Patrick did all he could to not inhale sharply. He shook his head and looked down at his plate, suddenly interested in the crumbs and spots of tomato sauce on the surface. “None.”

“I wanna change that,” Pete said, nonchalantly reaching for yet another slice. God, he loved pizza.

Patrick's head snapped up, bangs bouncing against his forehead. “What?”

The witch smiled. “What?” he echoed, before he took a big bite.

 

***

 

Once he reached his spot (a rarely-used dock) at the city's marina, Ryan took his shoes off and sighed once he flexed his toes. His shoes were new and he'd forgotten to wear Band-Aids around his pinky toes. Add that to him having to cover Spencer's shift because the guy slipped and broke his nose—seriously, the “slippery when wet” sign was set up in the back room for a goddamn _reason,_ and well... suffice to say, he wasn't happy about it. Now his feet were suffering. “Ow...” he groaned, massaging his toes. He looked out at the water and saw how calm it was. The day had been warm, and from the looks of it, the night was going to be a bit warm, too.

He let his legs dangle off the edge, stretching his toes as much as he could because he also wanted to feel the water. It was frustrating when he found that his toes floated an entire foot away from the sea. _Fuck, my legs are short._

The boy sat there for an immeasurable amount of time, admiring how the sun was slowly setting. He had half a mind to reach for his phone and headphones, but decided against it. It was a silent beautiful moment. It would have been rude to interrupt it.

“Hey.”

“ _Jesus_! _”_ Ryan startled. He looked to the side of the dock. Speaking of interruptions, it was the mermaid from before. “Brendon, what the fuck?”

Brendon bit his lower lip and grinned. He swam closer to see Ryan. It had been one day but he missed him already. “I wanted to see you. How was your day?”

“Abysmal,” Ryan said with a straight face.

“Big word.”

“What can I say, I like to pretend I'm smart,” Ryan shrugged. When Brendon just hummed at him, he asked again. “What do you want?”

“Just wanted to see you,” Brendon said, looking at Ryan's feet. “Your toes are cute...” he muttered, taking Ryan's left foot and inspecting it, making Ryan hiss and twitch away. “Hold still,” he said, keeping a tight grip on Ryan's ankle.

“Jeez, your hands are cold!”

“Dude, stop—I swear, if you kick my fucking face, I'll bite your toes off.”

“I thought merfolk didn't eat people?”

“I'm always down for new experiences. Now stop moving.” When the boy finally relaxed in his hand, Brendon took a closer look. Human feet would always be so odd for him. No human feet looked exactly the same, but they never differed too much from each other, either. It wasn't the same for tails. Mermaid tails were different depending on genes and where they lived, originally. If you lived in freshwater areas, chances are you'd have stronger fins for swimming upstream. If you lived in the deep, your scales could glow. “Must be fun having these,” Brendon commented.

“Yeah, try having them for more than four hours in a tight shoe, see if you still like them,” Ryan grumbled, looking up at the horizon. Funny, the sun seemed to set a little slower.

Brendon noticed Ryan's pinky toes, angry-red and swelling. “My mom used to do this when I scraped a few scales off when I was a kid. Don't freak out on me, okay?”

“What are you— _Oh, my God, what are you doing?_ ” Ryan exclaimed, feeling a cold, soft pair of lips over his blistered toes. He did his best not to kick the guy in the face. “Brendon, could you...?” When Brendon let go (that was the longest five seconds ever), he saw that the blisters weren't as red and as painful anymore. “Holy shit.”

“Fuck yeah, I inherited Mom's healing spit!” Brendon cheered, bouncing in the water (happy dancing? Swimming?).

“That's awesome,” Ryan said, bringing his foot closer to his face to see the effects. “Do all mermaids do that?” He looked at Brendon and reconsidered his terminology, because he was raised right. “Er, mermen? Merfolk? Which one's politically correct?”

The mermaid shrugged. “Fuck if I know, man. Mermaid, merman, fish... It's pretty much all the same thing to me. But I do like being called a mermaid,” Brendon said. He raised his hands in defense. “Call me basic, but I like the term. And to answer your question, no, not everyone can do that. It all depends on your genes, again.” He leaned away and floated on his back, showing off his abs (or as Sarah called them, “the goods”), tail swishing back and forth to keep him in place. “But I also like to think that some families are blessed.”

“By whom?” Ryan asked, sincerely curious. Some books had recorded information about merfolk's myths and legends, but hearing one from an actual mermaid felt more... magical.

“Her.”

Ryan looked up at where Brendon was pointing. Despite the sun not setting fully yet, he could see the button-sized moon, waiting like a guardian over them, ready to take her post once the sun disappeared under the line of the sea. “The moon is your... goddess?” he asked, setting his foot down.

“No, but the Woman who lives up there is,” Brendon smiled. “Legends say that She knew the first of our kind couldn't survive with Humans around, so She gave some families the gift of healing. The older ones say that She chose the kiss to help transfer the magic because it symbolized the point of why She gave it to us in the first place.” Brendon ran his fingertip on the sole of Ryan's foot. “To love is to heal and protect.” With that, he kissed Ryan's right foot and watched as the blisters faded.

Ryan couldn't help but blush. There he was, in a public place, talking to a mermaid he met only a day ago about their myths and _experiencing_ their magic firsthand as the sun set and the moon rose. Something about the entire ordeal felt strangely intimate. “We have hospitals,” he lamely offered.

Brendon threw his head back and laughed. “Way to kill the moment, you dork!”

“What do you expect me to say after all that?” Ryan said, smiling. “I mean, it's not as if we have a watchful deity checking up on us too. I mean, some people believe it, but...”

“Well, you guys _must_ have someone up there,” Brendon reasoned. “Someone good's got to be in charge. I mean, look at you. Something good created you.”

“For a mythical creature, you have a lot of faith,” Ryan said, rolling his eyes.

Brendon shrugged. “Everyone needs something to believe in.”

“Isn't your self enough?”

“The world is too _big!_ ” Brendon squealed, lying back with a splash. He came up again with a dramatic flourish. “It's too big for us, Ryan. There are too many things in this world that force us to believe in something bigger than us. I don't know what's at the bottom of some trenches of the ocean, and I fucking _live_ there. Seriously. We can all get a little self-sufficient, but to be honest? The world is... much too much. For us to be the only ones.” He floated on his back again. “And just think—it would be really lonely if we were the only ones here.”

“Huh,” Ryan nodded. And as the sky fully turned purple, and the wind blew colder, Ryan wondered if it worked the other way around. Maybe, before humans and mermaids and everything else came to be, God (or the Woman in the Moon, or whoever else) was extremely lonely, too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promised you guys more Brendon and Trohley and here it is. more to come, i promise!
> 
> damn that got philosophical in the end haha
> 
> again, no update next tuesday but i'll see you guys soonest! feel free to yell at me on my tumblr and in the comments. xx


	5. Being Blind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAHAHAHA I GOT TO SQUEEZE A WHOLE CHAPTER INTO MY SCHEDULE I FEEL SO BLESSED??? i hope none of you gave up on the story pls don't leave me frens haha
> 
> ALSO i might be able to post more soon? hopefully. since deadlines are next month, and im nearly done with my thesis haha. 
> 
> so i got a few messages about adding more Trohley and, well, how could i resist haha. fair warning tho: here there be feels. i am sorry in advance.
> 
> enjoy the chapter!!

 

Patrick could not believe his luck as he walked Pete to his house after their pizza date (could he call it a date already?). They'd exchanged numbers at the pizza place, and now he was going to get to see where he _lived_. While the older man talked, Patrick tried his best to settle the butterflies in his stomach, or at least tried not to let it show. They walked along the curb, Bowie trotting by their side.

“Well,” Pete said, stopping. “This is me.”

The two stood before a small lot sandwiched between two larger houses. The lot was surrounded by a low picket fence that reminded Patrick of the tiny houses he saw advertised in home magazines. Inside was a small house and a rather big garden, with planter boxes and crates of different flowers and herbs, and scattered around the ground below were wildflowers. It wasn't a professional garden, but it seemed very quaint, and it fit Pete's personality better.

“You grew all that yourself?”

Pete shoved his hands into his pockets, suddenly abashed. “Yeah. Going out and buying stuff gives me major anxiety, so I try growing all the stuff I need myself. It's pretty fun, I guess. Therapeutic.”

Patrick gazed at the flowers, some he could name, some he couldn't. “They're beautiful,” he smiled, ignoring how fast his heart was beating, because it really shouldn't, because they'd barely spent a full day with each other.

“Thanks, man.”

“Although I know a full garden like that's probably going to fuck me up in the spring.”

Pete laughed, and whoops, there go the butterflies again.

“Remind me never to get you flowers, then!” Pete joked, grinning so hard his cheeks kind of hurt.

“One won't kill me though, don't worry,” Patrick said, waving his hand.

Pete laughed as he unlatched the door of the fence. “Witches like playing pranks, you know.” He held the gate open. “Wanna come see?” he asked. He didn't even notice Bowie running in and heading straight for his little patch of violets _again_.

The shorter man stepped into the threshold, following Pete as he shooed Bowie away from his flowers. He took extra care not to step on anything aside the cobblestone walkway—this was a witch's garden after all. Everything and anything with life in the place probably held a smidge of magic that Pete would feel. Eventually they stopped walking through the garden and stood at a patch of carnations.

“What I love about carnations,” Pete said, taking a pair of garden clippers and looking through the pale pink blooms, “is that they're not only pretty. They bring their holders protection.” He selected one still a bit shy from fully blooming, and gently stroked its petals before giving the stem a good, clean snip. He gave the carnation a small kiss, then handed it to Patrick. “Form and function.”

Patrick took the flower. Up close it was less of a pink, but more a blush on white, a whisper or faint stain of red on pristine petals. “This is really nice,” he mumbled, trying not to look at Pete's eyes. He was so fucked, and they weren't even _actually_ dating yet.

“Suits you,” Pete shrugged. “And I'd suggest using river water to keep it alive longer, but tap water works just fine.” He watched as Patrick nodded, and, honest to all the gods that existed, he felt his heart jump when Patrick smiled and brought the flower to his lips.

Okay, he _could_ have been just smelling it, but Pete liked to imagine the guy kind of accepted his indirect kiss. A guy can dream. “You should, uh... go, I guess? I don't want you to miss the bus or something.” _Real smooth, asswipe_ , he inwardly jeered, realizing that he sounded like he wanted Patrick to actually leave. “I mean, I want you to be safe, you know? So. Yeah.”

“All right already, Scrooge, I'm leaving your lawn!” Patrick laughed, and Pete felt his nerves fade away. He adjusted his hat and gave Pete a final smile. “Thanks. For this. And for the... date?”

“Oh, we're calling it a date now?” Pete smirked.

“Fuck off, it was your idea in the first place,” Patrick said, rolling his eyes.

Pete started walking Patrick to the gate. “Hey, you wanted to follow me, so that evens it out, I guess.”

“I guess it does.”

Pete lost count of how many times he lost himself just staring at the soft, subtle beauty that was Patrick Stump. He stepped into Patrick's personal space, hoping the man wouldn't step back.

Patrick didn't. He stepped a bit closer, too.

Honestly, Pete feels so happy right now he could die.

“Please be careful,” Pete said, voice barely above a whisper. They're close enough to touch, and Pete could feel Patrick's warmth from where he stood.

“Good night, Pete,” Patrick whispered back.

A silence stretched between them, but it didn't hang heavy and awkward—instead, it felt comfortable, like the calm before one drifted fully into sleep. Patrick stepped backwards and smiled shyly, waving goodbye before fully walking away. “I'll text you when I get home.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Pete exhaled hard once Patrick was out of his sight. He closed the gate in a daze. He didn't know why, but he felt like he'd just been kissed.

 

***

 

Andy opened the door to Joe's apartment and wrinkled his nose once the lingering scent of weed greeted him. “You're going to ruin your lungs if you keep your habits up,” he said when he felt Joe come in behind him. He watched as the taller man made a beeline for the couch and all but threw himself on it. “You didn't close the door,” he said, following Joe.

“I see the future, you turn into a man-wolf. Anything that has plans to attack us is fucked seven ways to Sunday,” Joe drawled. “My head hurts.”

Andy circled the couch to sit on its arm. “Why don't you ease off the grass a bit? If it's giving you too much visions, maybe it's time to cool off.”

Joe grunted and pushed himself up to look at Andy. “Sit here. Wanna lie in your lap.”

The werewolf rolled his eyes but gave in. He got himself settled, and soon Joe's head was on his lap. Despite this not being the first time he's had Joe on him, the man's curls still tickled through his pants. “Ever considered a haircut?” Andy asked, smoothing away locks that covered Joe's face.

“Haircuts are for squares.”

“It would look good on you, though.”

“Hand me some scissors, then.”

“Pushover,” Andy laughed.

Joe hummed as he felt Andy's thighs shake under his head. “Maybe.”

They shared a quiet moment. Joe closed his eyes as vignettes of hospital beds and Patrick's bloodshot eyes flashed in his mind. They were unpleasant, and Joe could feel another panic attack coming, but he clamped his mouth. Andy didn't deserve the trouble of calming him down again.

“What are you thinking?” Andy said, fingers still running through Joe's hair.

“Nothing.”

“Don't lie to me, I can smell the nerves off you. And we've been friends for more than four years already. Stop it.”

“Don't wanna talk about it,” the clairvoyant mumbled. He just wanted some peace with Andy, was that too much to ask? “Keep talking to me, though. It helps.”

Andy stayed silent.

“Please?”

“Why can't you just... stop?” Andy sighed, pausing from petting Joe's hair. He looked down and frowned at the dark circles around his eyes. Joe was younger than he was but his eyes always had a far-away look that was only supposed to be seen in the eyes of a war veteran. It wasn't right, it didn't look _right._ “You've been getting visions far too frequently. I can tell.”

Joe wanted to reach up and pull Andy's head down for a kiss, but apparently he was just “a dear friend”, so he settled for twining his fingers together on his stomach instead. “I can't stop these things, you know that.”

“I know, but something's not right. Like, with you.”

Joe shrugged. “Maybe I'm just tired. But you already know how this goes, man. Visions will always have an effect on me. I'll sleep this off, don't worry.”

“Smoke less, then. I know that triggers what you see.”

Now it was Joe's turn to stay silent. He bit the inside of his cheek.

“Joe.”

Joe turned on his side, tearing his eyes away from Andy's and looking at the coffetable instead. “I don't want to.” Before Andy could say anything, he cut in. “I don't like not knowing anything. I can't... I _need_ to see what's going to happen, what's already happened, I need to see. I just... have to.”

In the softest voice, Andy asked, “Why?”

“If we can't be together, I'd at least like to keep you safe,” Joe murmured, keeping his eyes on the table. He felt Andy's hand leave his head. “Can't say I didn't see this coming,” he continued, shrugging. What was he thinking, anyway? Andy was a wolf, an integral part of a pack of alphas. Of course he would never feel the same way. He may entertain his pick-up lines with sharp wit, and he didn't shy away from Joe's touches, but there was nothing in the future that said they were ending up together. Why did he even hope for—

“I also want you to be safe, you idiot,” Andy said, laying a hand on Joe's shoulder. “Haven't you even thought of that? Of how I feel?”

Joe eased himself off Andy's lap and sat up. “Oh yeah? How do you feel, then?”

“Joe, I—”

“Because the visions suck, yeah, but being clueless about you hurts me way more.” Joe knew he was pushing it now, but he'd spent too much time telling and showing Andy how he felt. It was about time the guy gave him a piece of his mind as well. “Tell me. How do you feel?”

“Please don't do this,” Andy said, looking down. He squeezed his fingers together in his lap. He always knew this conversation was bound to happen, one way or another. In hindsight, it wasn't Joe's fault—at least he was honest. And Andy?

“Well?”

Andy was still a coward. _You're an asshole_ , Andy's conscience screamed. “Joe, I... can't.” Andy looked up at Joe and winced when he saw all the hurt in his blue eyes. “I... care, but we—”

“Can't, I get it,” Joe waved, getting off the couch. He stood to close the door and saw Patrick unlocking his own door. “How was your date?” When the smaller man squeaked in surprise, he spoke again. “Never mind, I know what happened. Good night, 'Trick,” he said, shutting the door. Behind him, he heard Andy shuffling off the couch. “If you're going to apologize, don't.”

“I'm... sorry.”

“I told you not to,” Joe said, voice low, back still turned to Andy. He didn't want to turn around. Seeing Andy reject him again would be too much.

“What do you want me to say, then?” Andy said, anger seeping into his voice. When Joe stayed silent, he stepped forward and grabbed the man's shoulder to turn him around. _“Look_ at me when I'm talking to you, asshole. _”_

“So what? So I can see you say no again? Andy, it's been, what, four years? _Four._ Do you have any idea how much that fucks me up, being close to you and knowing you don't feel the same?” Joe yelled. “ _Do you?_ ” he yelled again, pushing at Andy's shoulders.

“Stop assuming that it doesn't fuck me up, too!” Andy shouted back, pushing Joe back onto the door. “It hurts knowing that it's my fault that you're this way, so don't you dare think I'm clueless about your pain.” He could feel his eyes shifting from grey to an icy blue, but he pressed on. “You have no idea how much I care about you, so stop thinking you're always going to be one step ahead because you can _see_ everything.”

“Do you, though?” Joe pressed on. “Do you really care? Or are you just sticking with me because of your guilt? Because that's just it, I _see_. It fucks me up, randomly seeing how you're never gonna love me back!” Joe watched as something unreadable flickered through Andy's face after using the L-Word.

Fuck. This brought Andy back to four years ago, in the shitty apartment they shared after they graduated from college. It was a humid night, the air around them smelled of stale pizza and smoke, but it felt like home to them. Joe had told him he loved him, and he could only reply with that same two words he used until now. _“I can't.”_ Those two goddamned words that ripped through his best friend's heart. Looking at Joe now was torture, history was repeating itself and it made Andy sick that he couldn't say anything else.

“You should've just left me after I said it,” Joe said, voice suddenly quiet, but oh, there was still so much hurt in his eyes. “It could have been easier. You should've just left.”

That was it. Andy couldn't take anymore of this. He grabbed Joe's shirt and lifted him by the collar, despite the man being taller than him.

Joe shut his eyes and tensed his jaw, awaiting the blow from Andy's fist. In hindsight, he felt like he deserved it. He'd broken their agreement about talking about _that_ , but he was a stubborn asshole, so any pain the guy dished out, Joe readied himself.

“Shut up.” Andy tiptoed and pressed a kiss to Joe's lips, chaste, a proof of what he thought Andy never felt for him.

All the air in Joe's lungs left him as he loosened Andy's grip on his shirt. When Andy stepped back, he shook his head in confusion. “But you said... you couldn't.”

“I couldn't, before. It was a pack law. Still is,” Andy murmured. “I... have to go.” He reached for the door behind Joe and let himself out with a hasty goodnight.

 

***

 

“Meagan Jane Camper, prepare to get your mind _blown_ ,” Pete yelled into his phone. He was sprawled out on his living room floor, still overwhelmed by the day's events and Patrick in general. He didn't expect to get close enough to kiss, he thought Patrick would think he was a creep for stepping too close. But no, Patrick _stepped closer_ as well, and, well. He still couldn't deal.

“Jesus, you are _loud_ ,” Meagan said, putting Pete on speaker mode. She was currently painting her toenails—her boss had given her a shit ton of work for the week so she was treating herself a bit. “What is it, babe?”

“Patrick and I went on a date!” Pete exclaimed, splitting the last word into two singsong syllables. “We ate pizza, and Bowie was there, and _oh my god_ , his eyes, Meg—”

“Woah, woah, hold on,” Meagan said, pausing. The little paintbrush was still loaded with dark blue nail polish so some dripped into the space between her toes. “Patrick, as in, 'Possible Siren' Patrick? The sweetheart in the hat?”

“Yesssss...”

“Damn, you move fast! How'd it happen? Tell me everything!” Meagan said, smiling hard enough for her face to hurt, because this was a big deal for Pete, and even after all this time, it still took a lot for him to approach new people. You could say she was proud that Pete made an instant connection this time.

Pete laughed and did the best he could to retell everything that took place after the woman left the coffee shop. He rolled over onto his stomach, then on his back again. Pretty soon he was walking around the house and sitting on the most random places, like the kitchen sink, or the dryer, or on the edge of the bathtub. “... So he said he wanted to follow me, and I was like, yo, go out with me, since he couldn't stop rambling and defending himself, like 'no, I'm not a creep!' Fuck, you should've seen him, Meg, he was so cute, so I asked him out, and we ate pizza, and he...”

When Pete broke off in what sounded like a lovestruck sigh, Meagan spoke. “Well? What'd he do?”

“He walked me home,” Pete said, smiling down at the porcelain tub. “He walked me home, and I showed him my garden, and—”

Meagan snorted. “'Showed him my garden' sounds vaguely sexual, so I'm assuming you did the nasty?”

“Meagan, you're an asshole. And no, we did not do the nasty,” Pete rolled his eyes. “I've got class.” He heard the woman make an uncertain noise. “Shut up.”

“Fine, fine. You showed him your garden,” Meagan laughed, making air quotes, “and then what?”

“I gave him one flower, a carnation. And then...”

“And then?”

“Fuck, he was _so_ pretty, Meagan. I just can't—”

“Give me one more cliffhanger, Wentz, and I will go to your house and kick your ass.”

“We didn't kiss,” Pete gushed. Which was ironic, because nothing happened between him and Patrick. Unless the cosmic moment between them before they said goodbye counted. “He walked away after saying good night.” The image of Patrick's lips forming the words _“Good night, Pete”_ sent shivers down his spine, so, naturally, he looped the image in his head like a favorite scene from a good movie.

The other line was silent. “What.”

“What do you mean 'what'? The moment, Meagan, it was the _perfect_ moment,” Pete pressed.

“It's anticlimactic, that's what it is,” the woman said, wiping the blue polish off her skin. “You didn't kiss at all? Really? Not even a hug?”

“Nope. Personally speaking, I found it more romantic than sucking face, fuck you very much,” Pete quipped with a shrug.

“Huh. Gotta say, Pete, that's new.”

“What do you mean?”

“You always kind of like putting on moves once you're sure the person likes you. It's new.”

The witch stood up and looked at himself in the mirror as he spoke. “I... huh. Well, I did want to. Like, we were this close, Meagan. _This_ close to kissing. I could feel his body heat from how close we were.”

“But...?”

Pete bit his lip. “I don't know, it didn't feel right to ruin the moment. Just seeing him that close? Fuck, that was worth more than anything. There's something about him, Meg, something special aside from the Siren thing. He's, like, _special_ special.”

On the other end, Meagan was doing her best not to flail with giddiness—as much as she didn't want to admit, she also found the experience quite romantic. Anticlimactic, yes, but sweet as fuck. She squealed into the phone despite herself. “Fuck off with your happiness, Pete!” Pete laughed. “No, but seriously, I am so proud of you. Like, mom-level proud. That took guts, my friend.”

“I felt like I was going to spontaneously combust throughout the date, Meagan, I shit you not,” Pete said, turning around to lean on the sink. “I swear, I tried playing it cool, but he's just so...” he trailed, looking for a word to describe the man but failing. “He's something else.”

“Well, I'm glad that you had a great time,” Meagan replied, wanting to give the witch a hug. “God, I even _sound_ like a mom.”

Pete laughed and stepped out of the downstairs bathroom. He settled himself on the living room floor again, where he started, and laid himself back down. Bowie sniffed at his hair and face, as if to make sure Pete was okay. “You're my mom now, Meagan. You're the one who told me to talk to him, so yeah, thank you.”

“I'm your mom because I'm your impulse control more than 50% of the time.”

“True. Hey, I gotta go. I think Bowie's trying to eat my face.”

“At least someone's eating your face,” Meagan snickered.

“Shut up.” Pete heard the woman laugh loud into the line. “But seriously. Thanks, Meagan. Love you.”

“Love you too, you dumbass.”

The line clicked dead, which meant Pete had to stand up again. He groaned as he stretched his back and motioned for Bowie to follow him into the kitchen. “Come on, World's Most Questionable Wingman,” he called. “It's dinnertime.”

 

***

 

Patrick closed the door after the... slightly strange encounter. He wanted to see if Joe was okay, since he'd heard shouting behind his door, but thought it best to leave them alone. There was something about Joe that felt like he was the kind of person who needed his space after a fight. _I'll check on him later_ , Patrick thought, twiddling the stem of the carnation between his fingers.

He went to the kitchen and filled an old milk bottle with water. Once the flower was in place, he went to his room and set it on his bedside table. The thought of seeing it first thing in the morning made him smile, so he pulled his phone out and took a selfie of himself with the makeshift vase in the background. Once he was satisfied (the picture that had his approval was one of his face in the corner of the shot from the eyes up, the flower behind his head), he sent it to Pete.

_I just got home. The flower's really pretty, thanks :)_

In minutes, his phone buzzed with a reply. _ur very welcome slick trick ;) Bowie says hiiiii_ , the message said. Patrick laughed once he saw the picture Pete attached. It was mostly Bowie's face and snout, and half of Pete's face behind the dog.

_Rub his tummy for me haha!_

_he doesnt dserve it he ate my house slippers AGAIN smhh?_

Patrick was about to text back when a loud knocking interrupted his thoughts. He opened up to see Joe, wide-eyed and out of breath. “Joe, what's...?”

“Can you help me?” Joe said, looking worried.

Now this made Patrick feel very concerned—clairvoyants aren't exactly the types to feel worried about anything. “What's wrong?”

“I... I don't know.”

“What?”

“It's hard to explain. Could you... stay? With me?” Joe asked. He really coudn't be alone right now. Not after what happened with Andy, and not when he was a walking mess of emotions. “I'll tell you everything, I promise.”

“Sure, give me a few minutes,” Patrick said, stepping back and opening his door wider. “Come in.” When Joe settled himself on Patrick's couch, the shorter man went to his bedroom to get some clothes and a toothbrush. He found Joe curled up on his couch once he was done collecting his stuff. “Hey, what's wrong?”

“For the first time in my life,” Joe said, voice rough, “I don't know what's going to happen.” He felt the couch dip when Patrick sat next to his feet. “Is this how being blind feels like?”

Patrick had the urge to take Joe's legs and put them in his lap. “Is it your visions? Did they stop?”

“No, but they're... blurred together. Like, I can see everything at once, and I can't focus on just one, it's loud and it's fucking me over, and I _hate_ it,” Joe spat, pressing his palms to his eyelids in frustration. “Fuck, this is worse than that time I hotboxed my bathroom. Fuck.”

Clueless on what to say (he'd never really been friends with any clairvoyants before, and he'd never spoken to any at the Institute), Patrick reached out to stroke Joe's arm. “Come one. Let's go to your place. I wanna help you.” He ushered the taller man to his feet, locked the apartment door behind them, and made their way to Joe's.

“Sorry for getting you into my shit,” Joe said when he noticed Patrick looking around. “It's just... When this happened before, Andy was here.”

It didn't take Patrick long to put two and two together. _So that's what all the shouting was_ , he thought as he nodded in understanding. As much as he wanted to know more, what Joe needed was support, not questions. “It's fine,” he smiled, glancing around. “I like your place.” And Patrick really did. Joe's place was cozy, all earthy colors and mismatched rugs. There was a large bookshelf stacked with books about space, math, and philosophy, and picture frames sat on smaller stands. There was a record player and an assortment of music—Patrick would peruse later, if Joe allowed him, of course. It was neat, but there were small things out of order, like a misplaced coffee mug or a jacket strewn over a chair. Enough to make it feel comfortable, lived-in.

“Thanks.”

“Where's the bathroom?”

“Last door, down that hall.”

“I'm going to change into pyjamas, I hope you don't mind?”

“No, go ahead. I'm going to get changed, too.”

A few minutes later they were sitting at the dining table in the kitchen, Patrick sipping on instant coffee, and Joe drumming his fingers on the table.

“What... happened?” Patrick asked. “Before I went inside, I heard shouting, but I didn't want to bother you, so... yeah. Do you feel like telling me?”

Joe sighed. “Andy... kissed me.”

“Oh. _Oh!_ Congratulations, I guess?”

“And then he walked out on me.”

“Oh.” Patrick bit his lip, feeling kind of dumb. “What happened before, you know, the kiss?”

“He was mad at me for triggering too much of my visions with smoking. One thing led to another, and before we knew it, I was... fuck, I was being dumb about my fucking _feelings,_ as if it actually mattered.” The clairvoyant started feeling angry again, angry at himself and at the world. He was being childish, but he deserved to feel slighted—he was frustrated as hell right now and he didn't like the feeling of not knowing what to do next. “Actually, no, fuck that, I knew what I was doing, I wanted him to say something for a change. So I goaded him into telling me how he really felt, then he got even madder, and it... happened.” He growled after explaining. “I need a drink. Do you want a beer?” When Patrick shook his head, he went and pulled himself a cold Heineken out of the freezer. “And what sucks the most is the fact that I just can't bring myself to be mad at him for even a few hours. I'm more pissed at myself. I see the future on the daily, but I couldn't see this coming? What the fuck is that? Stupid. This gift is stupid,” he grumbled, popping the cap and taking a long swig.

This was not Patrick's division. “So... um. H-how long have you felt... like this towards Andy?”

“Four years. _Four_ fucking years,” Joe said, nearly slamming the bottle into the sink. “Fun, right? I should've been smart, should've looked for someone else, someone with no mating exclusivity bullshit in an alpha pack, but _no._ Apparently, the heart wants what it wants.” He wasn't even sure if he could believe what Andy said about possibly feeling the same way about him—fuck, he could've been just saying that to make him shut up. “I hate everything.”

Patrick could only sit quietly. What else could he do? Risk saying the wrong thing and make Joe feel worse? Sure, he was in the guy's kitchen, listening to his most personal problems, but they'd only known each other for a day. He honestly had no idea how to approach Joe in this kind of state.

“It's okay if you don't know what to say,” Joe muttered, feeling kind of sorry for Patrick. After all, they'd only been friends for roughly a day—what had he expected?

“I really want to help,” Patrick insisted. “Is there anything you think I can do?”

Joe took one look at the guy and decided to bite the bullet. “Are you sure?”

“As long as it's not, you know, anything sexual,” Patrick joked. When he heard Joe snort and shake his head, he clapped his hands. “Yes, you're smiling again!”

“It's nothing pervy,” Joe said, rubbing his arm. “But it's... kinda weird? For others, I guess?”

“Try me.”

“Okay. Back when Andy and I were roommates, I'd get nightmares. He helped me calm down with... spooning,” the clairvoyant said, mumbling the last bit.

Patrick only blinked at Joe. Joe started to feel stupid for even asking. “You know what, forget I even asked,” he chuckled, pouring the rest of his beer down the drain and walking out of the kitchen. “I'm going to bed. Forget everything I said, sorry. I hope the couch is good for you, I guess. I'm sorry. My manners are fucked right now. As is my life, haha,” he added with a wry laugh.

Patrick shook his head and followed Joe to his room. “I didn't say no, Joe! It just surprised me a little,” he said, patting the man's shoulder. “I've never really been this close to a friend before. Sorry. Kind of took me a while. But I'm totally cool with it, if it helps.”

“Dude, are you sure? Because it's okay if you—”

“Joe. Seriously. It's okay. I want to help you.” Patrick smiled. “And I still owe you for picking the lock on my door.”

Joe wished that Patrick would find happiness, or a hundred dollar bill, because he couldn't thank him enough. He was no Andy, but he would do. As long as he wasn't alone in his cold-ass bed for tonight. He and Patrick shimmied in under the covers, the latter hissing as his toes came in contact with the cool bed.

“So!” Patrick said. “Big spoon or little spoon?”

“Promise not to laugh?”

“I may or may not giggle.”

“Seriously, dude, I will kick you.”

“I'm kidding, I won't,” Patrick laughed, holding his hands up in defense. “So, what'll it be?”

“I'm the little spoon.” Once they got in position, Joe sighed in relief. Patrick was way smaller than he was, and his arms didn't feel as strong as Andy's, but he was soft and warm against his back.

Patrick got a warm feeling in his chest. Now that he thought about it, Joe was his first actual friend in the city. He'd been living for a year in L. A. with only the numbers of clients in his phone and a mermaid play-cousin. Joe was the first legit friend, and Andy was the second, and Pete was the third (although he was holding out more hope for what Pete could become). It filled him with so much joy that he snuggled in closer. “You feeling okay?”

“Yeah. You're warm.”

Patrick smiled. In his mind, he thanked whatever god was out there—if he didn't leave the Institute with Elisa, he probably would have never experienced this kind of quiet joy. He wouldn't have friends to console when they're sad, and he wouldn't get to experience so many things. He could have died lonely, with his voice and his life stolen from him.

He was so happy that he didn't notice Joe shaking against him. “Joe?” he whispered, afraid to startle the man. It dawned on him that Joe was crying, body wracked with held-in sobs and heaving breaths. Patrick held him tighter.

Joe brought his knees up to his chest as he let the tears fall. “S-sorry, man. I'm just... Fuck, I'm so confused,” he wheezed, holding Patrick's arms tighter around him. “I know all these things but I don't know what to do. Work's a fucking mess, my head's a fucking mess, I managed to make my best friend possibly hate me, and now I'm making you help me with my shit.” Joe hiccuped. “God, and my bed's super fucking cold. I don't even know what to do anymore.”

“You don't have to do anything,” Patrick shushed. “You just have to rest.” When Joe's shaking didn't stop, Patrick did the one thing he told himself never to do around others.

 

_Turn down the lights, turn down the bed_

_Turn down these voices inside my head_

_Lay down with me, tell me no lies_

_Just hold me close, don't patronize_

 

It was probably the wrong song to sing (it was a song for a jilted lover, _wow,_ Patrick!), but Patrick felt Joe relax in his arms, so he sang on. He kept his voice soft and hoped he helped.

Joe still felt tears slipping from the corners of his closed eyes, but hearing Patrick's voice this close made the visions slow down until they were nothing but a blur in his head, a hazy cloud of voices and faces that soon faded to black. He took deep breaths despite the snot clogging up his nose, and sighed as the smaller man sang.

Patrick was nearly done with the song when Joe cleared his throat. “You okay?”

“You're the last Siren left,” Joe whispered.

Nerves crept up Patrick's throat, but he gulped them down and nodded. “Yes.”

“Aren't you scared?”

“I'm always scared. But I trust you.”

“Why?”

Patrick held the man tighter. “Because I know you're a good person.”

Joe sniffled. “Thanks.”

“Thank you, too.”

The clairvoyant sighed, burrowing farther into Patrick. Around them, the covers were thankfully getting warmer. “Nobody will know. I promise.”

Patrick said nothing. He just pressed his face into the taller man's back, hoping he felt him smile in thanks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhhhooooh my god, why am i hurting joe like this
> 
> The song patrick sings is Bon Iver's version of "I Can't Make You Love Me" UvU i cried myself to sleep to that song once lol
> 
> Patrick's full backstory will be revealed SOON aaayyyyy


	6. Fragile, Fucked-Up Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here it is, Patrick's (slightly) full backstory!!! man, i hope the buildup was good enough.
> 
> remember what i said about joe catching a break? ahahaha it's not in this chapter yet.
> 
> i also updated the tags because there's violence, especially in the later chapters. it's not too gory, but i just wanted you guys to be safe. 
> 
> shit goes tits-up in this one i'm sorry bUT HAVE FUN :DD

_Cold. Everything was cold. Patrick started losing the feeling in his fingers after he and Elisa plunged into the swirling waters of the river. The only thing that reminded him he was still alive after the sixty-foot drop was Elisa's hand clasped around his, and the building pressure around his ribs._

_Now was the worst time for a panic attack._

“...atrick?”

_The current was too strong. Water slapped into his face, and his attack made it too hard for him to keep his head above the angry current. He could hear Elisa screaming for him to push himself, to fight and keep swimming, they were so close. Close to what?_

“...trick, please... ake up...”

_His eyes stung with the pelting of rain. Underwater, he could feel Elisa swimming stronger, pushing them against the rapids, her hand now vice-like on his arm. He couldn't keep his eyes open for long._

“Patrick!”

Patrick woke up with a start, Joe's clammy hand over his mouth. He felt as if he'd fallen harshly into bed, breathing fast and sweating through his clothes.

“Oh, thank God,” Joe sighed, taking his hand away. He leaned back on the headboard and checked the time. 3:46. “You were screaming bloody murder, I didn't know what to do. The neighbors would've known,” Joe said. He didn't want to freak the guy out more, but the “hand-over-the-mouth” thing needed to be explained. “Sorry.”

The Siren sat up and wiped at tears that he didn't notice had fallen. “Fuck...” he muttered. It'd been a long time since he had a nightmare like that. “I'm... I just...” The rest of his sentence dissolved in a shuddering exhale. He curled up on himself, bringing his knees to his chest. There was an incessant ringing in his ears, and his heartbeat was too fast. He hated how it reminded him of being hopped up on whatever drugs the people at the Institute kept him on.

“Dude, chill, you're okay,” Joe shushed, rubbing the guy's shoulder. “You're okay. It's just me. You're safe now.”

“I'm sorry for this,” Patrick managed to say, face still hidden. “I thought I was okay, I th-thought I was... I-I was...” he gasped. He could still feel the ghost of Elisa's hand on his arm, and it chilled him to remember the fact that when he woke up, she wasn't there. For all he knew, she might have died to save his undeserving ass. “I'm so sorry,” he said, openly sobbing into his knees. “I'm so, so sorry.”

Patrick's despair slowly slipped into panic territory, his chest seizing up. His lungs clenched as if there wasn't enough oxygen in the world for him to breathe, and his vision started to swim. “It's my fault she isn't here, I-I shouldn't be alive,” Patrick wheezed, stretching his legs out and kicking at the covers. He shook himself out of Joe's hands and drove himself further into the headboard, babbling about how Elisa deserved to live more than he did.

In his mind's eye, Joe saw a flash of a woman's face—gaunt and pale, with determination in her eyes and rain in her hair. Joe didn't even need to ask what Patrick had dreamt about. Fuck, he didn't even have to _see_ anything more _._ He felt so much of Patrick's pain from where he was sitting already, washing through him like torrential rain. He moved and hugged the smaller man's shaking form. “You're okay, Patrick,” he said against the man's hair, repeating the phrase as if it was a prayer, that if said enough times over, it would come true.

 

***

 

The sun was bound to come up in a few hours, but Andy still stared at the ceiling as if it was at fault for his sleeplessness. It wasn't his fault, he wanted to sleep more than anything in the world, because his shift at _Pretty Odd_ starts at eight, and coffee could only do so much. He'd learned early on that caffeine could only help with his energy, and not with his disposition towards people. He couldn't lose his job because he was emotionally constipated. He turned to his side and closed his eyes with a huff.

Which was a bad decision, because the first thing he saw was Joe, Joe from last night, from their last conversation, the one who looked so very hurt. The kind of Joe he hated seeing.

“ _Are you just sticking with me because of your guilt?”_

“Fuck!” Andy yelled into his pillow. He repeated the word, cursing and pounding his fist into the poor goose down-filled thing, wishing he was punching his own face instead. He sat up, frustrated. It was almost four-thirty. _Might as well run, then,_ he thought as he stood up and got changed.

Earphones in place and house keys in his pocket, Andy was just about to step out of the house when he heard footsteps from the kitchen.

“Pretty early for a run, don't you think?” Mixon said, raising a brow.

Andy inhaled and ran a hand through his hair. This was the slightly-annoying thing about living with a pack. Everyone more or less knows what you're thinking about because of the goddamn pack link. “Didn't have anything else to do, so,” he shrugged.

Mixon stepped towards him, still kind of rumpled from sleep, but smelling of coffee. “You didn't sleep last night, didn't you?”

“I really don't want to talk about it right now, man.”

“Something's up, Andy.”

“Matt, not now,” the shorter man grumbled.

Mixon bit the inside of his cheek and laid a heavy hand on his friend's shoulder. He was concerned, yeah, because Andy was brimming with so much stress that it almost was tangible, but he wasn't going to crowd his best friend. “Fine. But we're going to talk about... whatever's bothering you, okay?”

“I'd rather not.”

“Dude, we're talking about this. Would you rather bring down the whole pack with your vibes? It's going to suck more when they start noticing.”

As much as Andy hated it, Mixon was right. The rest of the pack couldn't know. Talking to Mixon was the lesser evil. He gulped and nodded, relaxing when he saw the other man's eyes soften. Soon the hand on his shoulder was taken away, and he stepped out into the cold morning air. He walked for a bit, letting the smell of grass and dew calm him down. Soon he was jogging. When he reached the twenty minute mark, he broke out into a sprint, losing himself in the angry music that blasted in his ears. He ran hard until his thighs started protesting, and his side started to sting. His eyes watered at the familiar aches that started to bloom in different parts of his body—ankles, thighs, chest—but he pushed on. This was his punishment, his self-inflicted pain, for last night.

 _Keep running_ , his conscience laughed. _That's what you always do, anyway. Run all you want, but you're not running away from this problem._

Andy gritted his teeth and decided to push for another mile before going back home. He didn't even count how far he ran. The world was slowly waking up around him as he tried to run his way out of his head, and he didn't even notice. He slowed down into a jog, stopping fully in front of his pack's house, the one they lovingly called Fuck City. He could barely feel his legs.

Once he got inside, the rest of the pack was awake—Mixon was in the living room, the TV showing the morning news. He heard some of the other guys in the kitchen, their coffee mugs clinking on the marble countertop. Andy bypassed all of them, answering calls of good morning with a tight smile and noncommittal grunt.

He peeled his clothes off and left them on the floor, and walked to the shower completely naked. He was tense, nerves wound tight around him like guitar strings. The hot water sent steam to every corner of the cubicle. Andy hoped it would suffocate him.

 

***

 

The sun was already up, and Joe and Patrick were still awake. They stayed in bed, silent and tired, Joe spooning Patrick this time. His arm had fallen asleep twice, and his right shoulder was starting to hurt, but he clung to the smaller man as if his life depended on it. Thankfully, Patrick stopped crying hours ago.

“How you doing, man?” Joe asked, breaking the quiet.

“Tired.” Patrick sighed. “But I'm scared of going back to sleep.” He didn't want to find out if the nightmares would come back once he closed his eyes. He couldn't bear it.

“Hold on,” Joe said, sitting up. “I wanna try something. Sit up.” Once Patrick was in position, he gently set his hands on the sides of Patrick's head. “A buddy showed me this, once. It was a freakin' trip.”

“What are you doing?”

“I'm gonna try taking it away, man.”

What Joe was about to do dawned on Patrick. “N-no, Joe, I can't let you do that. It's going to mess you up. I can't... I can't watch you do that. I swear. I don't want you to carry... _it_ for me.” He tried to shake free from the man's touch, but Joe held his face. “Joe, please.”

“Nope. At least let me take a portion of it. I felt what you felt. I can't let you walk around with all that negativity.” He gave Patrick's cheek a playful pat. “You helped me, now I'm helping you. _Quid pro quo._ ”

Patrick couldn't do this. As pure as Joe's intentions were, he wanted to push the guy away and lock himself in the bathroom, because Joe did not deserve more shit right now. Not after what happened last night. “Joe, please, you don't—”

“Too late,” Joe said, eyes closing. He slipped into a trance, just like how his friend showed him. He breathed slow until he felt a slight humming in his head. Huh. This wasn't so bad.

Soon the humming grew into a buzzing, which grew to a drilling sensation in the clairvoyant's head. Joe sucked in a breath as he powered through. This was the hard part. The pain was all of Patrick's mental walls, walls he put up over the years to protect whatever sanity he had left after... whatever happened. He lost count of how many seconds (minutes? Hours?) it took for him to get through all of them without having an aneurysm.

Once it was over, the next few seconds were blessedly buzz-free. Joe couldn't feel Patrick's face under hs fingers anymore, which meant the “head-travel” was successful. Then he saw a girl. She was short, shorter than Patrick, but there was something about her that wasn't small.

“What's your name?” the girl said, looking right at him.

Joe opened his mouth and answered in Patrick's voice.

“Hello, Patrick,” the girl smiled, the corners of her tired eyes crinkling. “I'm Elisa. I guess we're stuck here, huh?”

As time passed, Joe realized how the whole thing worked—right now, he was both himself and Patrick, speaking to Elisa in this memory and overhearing their conversation. The victim and the witness.

The memories started pretty benign, Patrick and Elisa being locked away in rooms that seemed like isolation chambers in sci-fi movies, the kinds of rooms that smelled of rubbing alcohol. They were treated pretty fairly, given books and food daily, but something about the place felt so mechanical. Joe could only hazard a guess that Patrick, around this time, was barely at the cusp of being a young man. Probably only fifteen or sixteen. He watched the two communicate through a small glass window in a wall.

It was an extremely lonelier version of that _Romeo and Juliet_ scene. Two teenagers holding hands through glass, exchanging comforting glances and kisses.

Then everything started getting more violent. There were people in masks that would hold Patrick down and stick syringes in him, testing different drugs until he screamed and cried. In the other room, similarly-dressed people would bring in a large glass tank of water and keep Elisa in it for hours on end until she also screamed.

“The Eastern Gilded still refuses to phase into its standard form,” one person holding a clipboard said.

“Use whatever means necessary to achieve the standard form, then. She's useless in this phase,” another said.

Joe's confusion ended when Elisa screamed and thrashed around in the tank. Someone had dipped an electrical device into the water. He watched in horror as the girl's legs stuck together and turned into a long, golden fishtail. He only understood now who this Elisa truly was.

Patrick's possible soulmate was the last Eastern Gilded mermaid, the only type of merperson whose genes allowed them to create human legs out of their tails.

The next moments were pure torture.

Patrick and Elisa were subjected to various experiments to “save” their species of Others from dying out. They went through days of being totally tripped out on cocktails of different drugs, and they were treated like mice used as test subjects. Patrick was often held down in chairs with a microscopic camera down his throat to see how strong Siren voices could get. It was a sad sight, watching the two get skinnier and more hopeless through the years that felt like they slipped by like sand around Joe.

He watched Patrick turn twenty-four behind the same pristine walls when he decided he couldn't take it anymore.

He pulled out of the memory as gently as he could, because as painful as it was for him, God only knew how much it sucked for Patrick to revisit all of it. When Joe blinked back to reality, Patrick was a picture of a broken man in front of him, sobbing with his eyes screwed shut. He wasn't even holding back how he was shaking now, face red and chest heaving. Joe let go.

What does one say after seeing all of that?

“Patrick, open your eyes,” Joe whispered, taking his hands away.

Patrick shook his head, eyes still closed. “I can't... I c-can't, because maybe all of this is just some dr-drugged-out dream. I don't want to wake up at that place anymore, I-I can't, kill me, just kill me, please, just end it, please...”

Joe couldn't watch this. He was still woozy from being in Patrick's head, and he didn't even take any of the memories yet. Fuck, he just put the guy through those memories again for nothing. He blinked his own tears back and touched his forehead to the other man's. “You're safe. You're Patrick Stump. Somehow you left that place with a girl named Elisa, and you lived. You're in Joseph Trohman's shitty apartment in downtown L.A., and yesterday you met a guy who made you truly smile again. You're alive, and you're safe.” He repeated this until Patrick slowly opened his eyes. “You're okay, man. I got you.”

“I'm ashamed...” Patrick whispered. “I don't feel like myself anymore. They took it from me. I am nothing.”

“No, you're something. You're Patrick fucking Stump. You're the last Siren—”

“Don't call me that, please, please don't—”

“Patrick,” Joe interrupted, before Patrick could start crying again. “They took away all those years from you. But they never took who you are. You are yours, and you will always have yourself.” He pulled him into a hug. “You're the last Siren. You're still here. You're fucking strong as the earth, man.”

Patrick clung onto Joe and cried into his shoulder again. As the two held each other, Joe swore to himself that he would do everything in his power to be strong enough to take those memories from Patrick.

 

***

 

Pete let out a noise that sounded like a cross between a whine and a grunt as he stretched his arms upwards. He'd just finished answering a series of letters to his column, and now his back hurt like hell. Bowie's ears perked up at his movements, hoping the witch would finally get up and feed him. When Pete leaned back into his chair with a satisfied huff, the dog whined.

“Don't tell me you're hungry again, I just fed you,” Pete laughed, shutting his laptop. God, that was how many letters? A hundred? Hundred-fifty? He wasn't getting paid enough. He looked at the clock and clicked his tongue—how was it nine already?

He went to his room and checked his phone. “Holy shit, Meagan...” he muttered, clicking on the twelve messages the woman sent.

_Pete. Peeeeeete. could u do me a favor_

_we organized an art show. it's this weekend._

_please come sobs I won't hear the end of it if I don't bring in more guests_

_apparently someone made a mistake with catering??? and ordered too many canollis_

_cannolis? those things w/ the cream whatevs._

_so yeah I need u to eat them 4 me bring Bowie or smth_

_u need to go. because of our friendship and because im ur mom._

_pleeeeease i'll owe u so much_

_???? say something im givin up on yooooou_

_OMG YOU CAN BRING PATRICK I WANNA TALK TO HIM AAAHHH_

_but yes pls tell me you'll go._

_bring friends or smth. or it can be another DATE for u and patrick haha. ;)_

Pete could feel his face heating up. Meagan, his bestest friend in the whole world, was asking to meet Patrick at a possibly-formal setting. This was going to be a bigger deal than their pizza date. He texted his reply. _haha FINE im going. but lemme ask Patrick first._

 _YEEESS OMG THANK YOU,_ Meagan replied.

After sending Meagan a kissy face emoji, Pete paused and bit his lip. It was nine in the morning, so it was a safe-ish time to text Patrick. And he did say he wrote music for a living, so it was safe to say he worked from home. “Whatever,” he muttered, shaking off his worry. _Goood morning patrick! :)),_ he texted. And then waited for thirty seconds. Patrick was a pretty fast replier.

One minute.

One minute and thirty seconds.

Two minutes.

Anxiety started to build in Pete's gut. Was he too eager? Fuck, was it too early for him to be sending the dude “good morning” texts? He dropped the phone on the bed and started to pace around in his room, too busy antagonizing himself that he didn't notice his phone was vibrating with a call. Once he actually noticed the flashing green phone icon and Patrick's number, he snatched the phone up and took the call. “Hello? Patrick?”

“Close, but no cigar.”

“Joe? What are you doing with Patrick's phone?”

“He's asleep right now, but—”

 _What the fuck?_ “Wait, what?”

Joe sighed. “Mind out of the gutter, man. I can see you jumping to conclusions through this phone. Patrick's at my place because he did me a favor last night. Nothing happened, chill.”

Pete felt a bit embarrassed, because first of all, he had no right to feel possessive just yet. The mutual attraction between him and Patrick was confirmed, yes, but they were at the “still just friends” phase. “Sorry. But why are you calling? Did something happen?”

On the other end, Joe looked over his shoulder to check if Patrick was asleep. He went to the kitchen and spoke. “Pete. Level with me,” he said, lowering his voice. “You know what Patrick is, right?”

Pete's breathing stilled. “I...”

“Don't lie to me. This is serious.”

“Y-yes. I do.”

“Did you know before you met him?”

“Why are you asking me this?”

“Because your answer changes a lot of things, trust me.”

The witch's heart felt like a hammer in his chest. He lowered himself on the bed and laid his hand over the folds on his sheets. “I... guess I kinda knew. I woke up one morning and knew I was looking for something. I heard his voice before I saw his face, and that's when I knew.” He heard a long silence on Joe's end. “Joe? Still there?”

“Well, that's just great,” Joe finally said.

“Joe, what's going on? Is Patrick okay?”

“You need to come see him.”

Okay, this was starting to worry Pete. “Dude, what—”

“I'll send you my address. Just come here, okay?”

When Pete agreed, Joe hung up. Soon enough, Joe sent him a text directing him to his apartment. Fuck, whatever this was, it sounded serious, but the last thing Pete wanted to be was clueless. Especially when it involved clairvoyants. So he took a quick shower and consulted his crystal marbles.

“I need to know what's going on with Patrick,” the witch whispered, holding the bowl. In a few minutes, he saw a blurry figure of someone huddled in a pile of what looked like blankets on a bed. Then he heard the unmistakeable lilt of Patrick's voice, caught in a shaky whimper.

Holy fuck, Patrick was crying.

Hearing it was like a punch to the fucking _gut_. After he thanked the Universe and put the bowl of marbles back in the living room, Patrick's soft weeping was stuck in his head, and it made him feel sick. Even in his darkest days, Pete had never known sadness like this. He grabbed his phone and his keys and ran to the door. “Bowie, you're in charge of the house, I'll be back soon!”

 

***

 

Joe bit his lip as he watched Patrick cry in his sleep. Fuck. He was having nightmares again. This was all his fault. He stepped out of the room and opened a window in the living room, lungs practically begging for the release of nicotine. Joe couldn't test his chances with weed right now, not after what happened. The first drag felt like a blessing. Joe exhaled, watching the smoke curl into tendrils before disappearing completely.

 _You put him in this position_ , the clairvoyant thought, berating himself. He bit down on his molars. Fuck. He was a guy who did a lot of stupid things, granted, but making Patrick revisit the darkest parts of his life was surely the worst, dumbest, most thoughtless thing he's done. What the fuck was he thinking, thinking he could do a memory swap after a friend showed him? Joe's clairvoyancy was pretty strong, he could sense feelings and pick up snippets of memories, but he wasn't ready for taking _decades_ of nightmares.

He silently went to his room to retrieve his phone to text Andy. Surely he'd know what to do at times like these— _oh._ Right.

He and Andy were on an indefinite cool-off. Joe frowned at himself and swiped through his other contacts until he found someone else who could help him. Well, not really help him, but someone who at least knew more about psychic shit than he did.

_yo gabe? you in town? I need to ask you something._

Minutes passed, but there was no reply. “Well, fuck it,” Joe shrugged as he put out his cigarette. If Gabe wasn't going to help him, he was going to figure out the memory swap thing himself. He went to his bookshelf and looked through his collection, hoping he had a book or something that would at least give him a clue. He was in the middle of perusing an old copy of _The Secret_ when a loud knocking startled him.

“Joe? It's Pete, let me in!”

Joe opened the door, automatically stepping to the side as the witch strode in. “Good morning to you, too, man,” he said, closing the door.

“Where's Patrick?”

“Dude, relax. He's asleep. Sit down, I need to talk to you about something.” Once Pete was on his couch, Joe crossed his arms. “Let's review—you know what Patrick is right?”

“More or less, yeah.”

“And I trust you know your Siren history, yes?”

“I know they were wiped out, like, years ago.”

“And...?”

Pete nodded slowly with a lost look. “...Yeah, no, that's all I really know.”

“Goddammit, Pete.”

“I'm sorry, there's actually not a lot of info about a species that's already considered obsolete, Joe!” Pete said, all of a sudden frustrated. “Can I just—where's Patrick? I wanna see him.” Seeing him in the marbles made Pete antsy the whole cab ride to Joe's place, so he wanted to see that the guy was okay. A part of him _ached_ to see Patrick okay.

Joe set his hands on the witch's shoulders. “Look. I know you're worried, and you kinda have a right to be, but I need you to understand something. Patrick's a Siren, right? A-and you know what happened to them, right?”

Pete felt drawn in by Joe's eyes. He was being so intense right now, it actually scared him a bit. “They were wiped because they were hunted and sold, I think?” he answered.

“What else?”

“I don't know, they couldn't... _multiply_ without their soulmate or something, I don't know!”

“Meaning?”

“... They died of heartbreak?”

Joe gave Pete a weird look. “That's one way to put it, I guess.” He eased off of the guy and sat next to him.

Pete turned to look at the taller man. “Again, I still do not follow. What was all that for?”

“Patrick's... Patrick's in a bad place. From a bad place, rather. He's...” Joe sighed. “He's messed up. He needs someone to be there for him, someone who can handle him being... well, the last of his kind.”

“Right,” Pete nodded absently. Well, whoever that someone was was super fucking lucky, because Patrick was a catch. Sure, they'd known each other for a day, but that was enough for Pete to understand just how special the little dude was. Maybe Joe talking to him about all this Siren stuff was his subtle way of telling him to back off because the Universe had someone way better to match up to Patrick.

“Right.”

Silence.

“Dude, why are you staring at me like that, it's freaking me out.”

Joe raised his eyebrows at Pete, and all of a sudden, everything clicked into place.

“No. _No_. No way—are you saying I'm—”

“Keep your voice down, Patrick's asleep!” Joe hissed.

“Are you saying I'm like... Patrick's...” Oh, shit, Pete couldn't even bring himself to say it out loud. It's not like he didn't want Patrick, it's just. Him. Pete. In general. Patrick was all these good things, and he made Pete feel special with the way he laughed at his jokes, and how he smiled as if the world was a fucking _gift_ , and just his overall Patrick-ness that Pete was afraid to ruin with who he was as a person. Him being with Patrick, the lone Siren who saw so much good in everything, would be like handing a clumsy child a figurine of spun glass. “I can't, man,” Pete says in a small voice. “I'm... I'm not _good_ for him.”

“Fuckin' hell,” Joe huffed. “That's twice I've heard those two goddamned words. I've had it with the spiel of 'I can'ts'. I'm not asking you to change yourself for the guy, I'm just saying he needs you to _be_ with him, get it?” When Pete answered with an unsure expression, he took the guy's shoulders and made him face him. “Pete, I saw things. Patrick seems fine, but he's fucked up. He's _broken_ , and he needs someone to help him get back on his feet.”

At this point, Pete was sure he slipped into an alternate dimension, because he had zero idea as to what was going on. “Dude, what are you talking about?”

“You'll know soon,” Joe said, letting go.

Another awkward silence fell upon them. Joe could feel Pete's hesitation and overwhelming curiosity, but it wasn't his story to tell.

“Dude,” Pete said, staring at the coffeetable. “What if I'm not?”

“That is a lambast to my psychic abilities, you asshole.”

“I mean... what if it just seems that way because I happened to hear him? What if you made a mistake?”

The clairvoyant stared at Pete in disbelief. “Good God, I thought witches were smart.”

“Now that's offensive.”

“Pete, I know what I saw, okay? These visions don't make mistakes, it doesn't work that way. It's you or no one else, man. God.”

“I don't know, what if—”

The windowpanes gave a sharp crack, cutting the witch off. On the bookshelf, some glass frames cracked as well.

“What the fuck?” Pete said, noticing how big the cracks on the window were getting.

Joe spared him one look and ran to the bedroom, Pete at his heels. The situation was much worse in his room—glass bowls had broken, his reading glasses were cracked beyond repair, and an old vase filled with pencils was now reduced to orange shards on his nightstand. “Shit.”

Patrick was writhing in bed, caught in a net of bad dreams he couldn't wake up from. He was sobbing again, face all red and scrunched up. He balled his hands into fists and struggled against invisible hands, and, oh God, Joe had never felt guiltier.

“Joe, wake him up!” Pete cried. Waves of anguish surged from Patrick, and he could feel the guy's power all bottled up and ready to explode if something wasn't done quickly. “Dude, _wake him up!_ ”

“You wake him up!” Joe yelled, pressing his hands to his ears. “I can't fucking get near him!”

“The fuck are you talking about? And why are you yelling?”

Joe winced. A tinny vibration assaulted his ears, and he couldn't even hear himself speak. “Just get near him, for the love of God, make him _stop!_ ”

Pete was still so confused, because he couldn't hear a thing. Why was Joe covering his ears like that? All he heard was the cracking of glass. He stepped towards the side of the bed and reached out for Patrick's cheeks. When Patrick flinched away from his touch, he recoiled and looked to Joe. “Joe, what do I do?”

“Speak to his soul or some shit!” Joe yelled, eyes screwed shut. At this point he wasn't even going to be shocked if his ears were bleeding. “The neighbors are gonna notice soon, just do whatever!”

“I don't know what!”

“Get on top of him to keep him still, at least!”

When the witch straddled Patrick's waist, he let out a deafening scream and bucked even harder against Pete.

“No _, don't!_ ” Patrick wailed, kicking at the sheets, eyes still closed. “Don't touch me, _please, don't!_ ”

“Fuckin' making it worse, man!” Joe cried from the floor. Patrick's sudden scream kind of knocked him over, the vibrations feeling like a series of hard slaps to his ears.

It physically hurt Pete, seeing Patrick in such distress, so he held both sides of Patrick's face and gently touched his forehead to his. “Hey, you're okay, man. It's all a bad dream,” he whispered, hoping he got through. “It's all a bad dream, you're safe, I'm here. It's nothing, just a bad dream.” He said this over and over, until Patrick stilled underneath him.

Thankfully, Patrick dialed down to whimpers and incoherent mumbling. “You're okay. We're okay,” Pete repeated. When the smaller man calmed down, Pete got off and settled himself on his side. He gulped his panic down and wiped at the tears that streaked Patrick's face, pity filling his chest. “We're okay.”

Could he really be Patrick's soulmate? Could he handle it, when he couldn't even make sense of his own life?

Pete continued stroking Patrick's face, admiring how soft and warm his skin was. He took extra care when he wiped stray tears away, and noticed how Patrick relaxed under his touch.

Joe rose from the floor and ran a hand through his hair. “I fucking called it, man. I told you so.”

 

***

 

The midday rush at _Pretty Odd_ was in full swing when Andy's hands slipped and dropped a saucer. “Shit,” he said under his breath, bending over and collecting the bigger shards and carefully picking through sharp edges. Well, at least he was in the back room. If this happened at the counter, or God forbid, while _serving_ , he'd never hear the end of it from their boss.

“Everything all right?” Ryan asked, wiping his hands on his apron.

“Yeah, I'm fine.”

“You've been off the whole morning, man. What's wrong?”

Andy dumped the larger shards into the designated bin and started searching for the broom and dustpan. “Nothing. I'm fine.”

Ryan leaned his back against the sink and crossed his arms. “Are you, like... on your cycle? 'Cause there was just a full moon. Maybe your wolfy side's acting up?”

The werewolf pegged Ryan with a blank stare. “I may be a pacifist, but I am this close to punching you, Ryan.”

“Ah, so something _is_ wrong.”

Andy looked down at the floor and started sweeping at the leftover glass with too much force. He ground his molars and tried not to think about how much confusion he just left his best friend in, tried his best to think of the pack law that he was still very much bound to. Thoughts of how Joe's hair smelled like smoke and an artificial strawberry scent, and how his lips felt so soft against his own were banished to the back burner of his mind.

But no matter how hard he tried, he still couldn't get the echoes of Joe's stuttering heartbeat out of his ears.

In a way, yes, he was betraying the pack law of exclusive loyalty to another wolf, but they couldn't say he didn't try his damnedest to keep it.

“You know you can talk to me,” Ryan offered.

“There's nothing to talk about, now could you please _stop_ bothering me?”

“Not when you're breaking shit in the back room,” Ryan shrugged. “Dude. Just... We've been working together for like a year now. At least let me help you with this or something.”

“Why, because you don't have enough friends to help out?” Andy snapped.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Andy spared Ryan a look. Through the kid's nonchalant way of speaking, he could sense genuine concern and a hint of loneliness. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “Fuck, I... I didn't mean it that way. Sorry.”

The younger man shrugged. “It's cool.” And in all honesty, it was. Ryan was never the most sociable kid, so he wasn't as good when it came to detecting subtle hints of “Please fuck off”. But he knew his heart was in the right place, and he just really wanted to make a change for himself, so he made an extra effort to ask people what was going on in their lives.

Was it rude? Sometimes. Invasive? You fucking bet. But at least he cared.

Andy finished sweeping up the glass. “Well, it's lunch time anyway. I can clock in my break so Spencer can start his shift.” When Ryan nodded and headed to the back door, Andy threw the glass away and gave Jon the heads-up that he and Ryan were going to be out back. In minutes, he found himself beside the guy, leaning against the concrete wall at the back of the coffee shop.

“So,” Ryan quipped. “How does one begin these deep conversations?”

“Dude, this was your idea.”

“Yeah, but as you stated previously, I'm a friendless loser, so I don't know how to talk to people.”

“I did not say that.”

“Eh, different house, same neighborhood,” Ryan replied, flicking his bangs into place.

Andy shook his head as he stared at his shoes. “You are so weird.”

“Don't let that stop you from talking.”

“Fine.” Andy raised his head and stared at the wall across them, finding patterns in the cracked concrete. “I have this... friend.”

“By 'friend', you mean someone who's _actually_ just your friend? Or a person you call a friend because you're emotionally constipated and you don't deal with feelings too well?” Ryan commented.

Andy felt as if he'd just been slapped. “I don't...” he trailed, feeling frustration bubble up in him again because, fuck, he was, he truly was emotionally constipated but he wasn't doing anything about it.

Ryan sensed his quiet and smirked. “Unrequited love. Gets 'em everytime.”

“It's not unrequited love, I just—”

“Did you tell them you loved them and then they brushed you off? Because I get it, that sucks.” The younger man scuffed his shoes on the ground. “Or, fuck, are you two still friends? Because that would explain how you're so mad though.”

“No, I'm not—”

“Dude, come _on._ If you're hurting, I'd suggest distancing yourself, because it's going to fuck the both of you up. Just saying,” Ryan rambled on. “You wanna cool it off first before trying to be friends with them again.”

“All right already, you're _right!_ ” Andy yelled. “You're right, I should have cooled it off first, I shouldn't have pushed him to stay and be friends with me after what I did! You wanna know what I did, Ryan? _I_ broke his heart. _I'm_ the friend that he confessed to, I'm the one who couldn't keep my distance, I'm the one who fucked him over! And last night I made it worse, because I kissed him, Ryan. I _kissed_ him, despite telling him four years ago that we _couldn't,_ because of a pack law, but really, I was just scared I'd fuck him up! And now we're probably not friends anymore because I am fucking _shit_ when it comes to feelings!”

The back alley of _Pretty Odd_ was so silent you could hear a pin drop. Ryan stared at Andy the way a mouse stared at a big cat. “Well, shit, that changes a lot of things,” Ryan finally said.

Andy let out a sigh enveloped in a suffering groan. “Yes, it does, it _does_ , Ryan.”

Another silence. “To be honest, I didn't expect you to actually open up to me, so I am very unprepared for this point of the conversation.”

“It's fine,” Andy waved.

“Not when you're about to snap, it's not.”

“This close, man. I am _this_ close to punching something.”

“Sorry. No social skills, remember?”

Andy pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed again. “It's cool. Sorry, I just... I fucked up big time.”

The younger man shrugged. “I can see that. Look, can I say something?” When Andy nodded, Ryan continued. “Sometimes, there are things we can't go against. Like your, you know, pack law or something. But you can't let stuff like that dictate your happiness. You're going to lose yourself if you let that happen. You said this guy loves you, right?”

Oh, how it stung to hear the truth from another person's lips. Joe loved Andy. Correction—he _still loves_ him, and look how Andy handled that. “He does.”

“Do you love him back?” When Andy opened his mouth to answer, Ryan held up a hand to stop him. “You don't have to answer that. If you have a definite answer, then there you go. That's step one. You can figure things out from there.” He smiled and punched Andy softly on the shoulder. “And try not to break any more stuff while you're at it.”

Andy couldn't help but snort at the comment. He looked at Ryan and saw how young he looked, with his floppy brown bangs and sleepy eyes. What he'd said was right, albeit harshly phrased.

“Well, I'm going back inside,” Ryan said, stretching his arms. “Jon's probably baking another batch of brownies. You wanna come with, or do you want to... meditate?”

Andy smiled at the kid and shook his head. “I'm good.”

“Cool,” Ryan replied, holding the door open for the both of them.

Once inside, they found that Jon did, in fact, bake another batch of brownies. The scent of chocolate calmed Andy down as he breathed it all in. He knew what to do now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and a wild gabe appears!!! well, mentioned, at least.
> 
> it's almost coming full circle yes good. this goes to show that patrick is sooo fucking tough. last few bits of backstory coming up, and i'm super excited, because once it's fully exposed, SHIT CAN GET REAL
> 
> i hope you guys enjoyed it???? xx


	7. "We're Going To Be Just Fine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE LONG WAIT IS FINALLY OVER I AM SO SORRY!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> i feel like an explanation is due since it took me too long to update so here we go: i got a job as a teacher! wasn't really what i was aiming for, but teaching kids kept me super busy and i am so sorryyyyy ; A; but i've got a handle on it now, and i got to squeeze finishing this chapter in!!
> 
> again, apologies for the wait ; -;

Patrick woke up to someone's warm breath on his face. He was fully awake now, but he didn't want to open his eyes yet. He felt a familiar ache in his throat and his head throbbed, which meant he'd just been screaming. _Oh, God, Joe had to deal with another one of my episodes..._ Patrick thought, feeling ashamed. He cracked his eyes open slowly—it stung like he'd been dunked in saltwater, so he must have cried a _lot_.

His vision was still hazy from sleep, but he wasn't blind. He searched for Joe's signature curls, or the patterns of his tattoos through the blur, anything that would remind him that he was still in the clairvoyant's room. Slowly, like a leaf sailing to a park's grassy floor, he gained focus and saw that Pete was in the bed with him.

Pete was asleep, and just inches away. Patrick was so close to the witch that he could count the stray hairs of his eyebrows and map out constellations on the bumps and moles on his tanned skin. He was snoring softly, mouth open just so, just enough for his breath to ghost Patrick's own mouth.

If only Patrick could know such peace in his sleep like Pete.

When Patrick moved to sit up, Pete stirred in his sleep, scrunching up his nose and opening his eyes. “You're awake,” the witch said, sitting up.

“Yeah, I just... needed to get some water,” Patrick mumbled.

Pete slid off the bed and started heading for the door. “Oh, no, let me get you some. Stay in bed for a bit.”

“No, really, I'm fine.”

“Patrick.”

The way Pete said his name sent a shiver up his spine. He couldn't say no.

“It's fine. Let me help you,” Pete smiled. When Patrick got back under the covers, he went to Joe's kitchen.

“How is he?” Joe asked, sauntering into the room and dropping himself into a chair. His hair was in what he considered a bun (really, he tried looping the band twice around his hair, but it just snapped), and his eyes were _tired_. Seriously, he didn't even want to see what he looked like. “Is he still... you know, not okay?”

“No, he's fine,” Pete said, reaching for a glass in the cupboard. “Well, he _looks_ fine. Sounded a little scratchy, eyes were still swollen, but he looked fine.” He filled the glass with tap water.

“You know what I mean.”

“I can't really... _ask_ him right now, man,” Pete countered. “I don't even know what happened a while ago, or why it happened. I only know what you told me.” He shrugged and scratched the back of his neck. “Hell, I'm still dealing with what you told me earlier.”

“You have to ask him at some point, because I am not telling you,” Joe said, putting his hands up. “Not my story to tell. Plus, he's your soulmate, not mine. Keeping my nose out of this beeswax this time.”

Soulmate. _Soulmate_. Yeah, Pete was still coming to grips with the word, and everything else associated with it. He was, apparently, Patrick Stump's soulmate. The soulmate of the last Siren ever to walk the face of the earth. The word meant “protector”, “provider”, “listener”...

… And it also meant “lover”. A forever-lover. Pete's anxiety started to spike. Fuck, the poor guy's going to be stuck with _him,_ the patron saint of failure and relationships that lasted no longer than a fucking year. And forever was a very long time. How would they survive? How would Patrick survive? Oh, God, he was going to drive the poor guy to kill himself, how could someone so perfect live with a fuck-up like him—

“Pete, stop it,” Joe ground out. “You've got to stop thinking that way, man. I know you feel like you're the worst, but you're not. Get that?”

“Y-you could hear me?”

“Dude, I can almost _taste_ your self-hatred. You've got to fight it.” Joe leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “You're special, man. Whatever is out there, whatever... dictates who people's soulmates are, must think you're a special person, and you are. And if you wanna get scientific with it, you're still special, because as far as I know a Siren never gets a soulmate that's not of their kind. And I know a lot. So trust me on this—you may not feel like it, but you're a big deal.”

“I have to admit, that is the weirdest pep talk I've ever gotten,” Pete chuckled. He didn't have to say thank you to Joe. Joe probably already knew what he was going to say, so instead he joked.

“Oh, before you go, I'm leaving in thirty minutes for a tutorial thing, so I need you guys to kind of scoot.”

“Tutorial thing?”

“Yeah, I tutor kids sometimes.”

“You are just full of surprises, man.”

“I find that insulting. I'll have you know, I am great at Math and Science,” Joe laughed, tightening his bun.

Pete laughed and left for the bedroom. He found Patrick standing by the window, fingers tracing the cracks on the glass. “Got you some water.”

Patrick whipped around, as if caught stealing. “Right. Thanks.” When the first gulp settled in his stomach, Patrick only then realized how parched he was, so he finished the whole glass. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” Pete sat on the bed, feeling awkward. What was there to talk about? He couldn't talk about the soulmate thing now, but he couldn't _not_ talk about it either.

“You're awfully silent,” Patrick offered, trying to smile.

“Just got a lot of things going on. Up in here,” Pete said, poking his temple. “Hey, listen. You might be wondering why I was in bed with you earlier, right?”

Patrick took a seat next to the witch. “Yeah, I kind of was. I mean, I'm not mad at it, but I am curious.”

“Well, Joe texted me to come here.”

Patrick's smile fell. He felt the familiar chill of panic in his chest again. “How much did he tell you?”

“Not enough.” Pete watched Patrick retreat into himself. His eyes turned glassy and his breath started to quicken. “Hey, it's okay,” Pete said, taking Patrick's hand and squeezing it. “I can't even... begin to imagine what happened to you before, and I'm not going to ask you to tell me if you're not ready to talk about it yet. I just,” Pete gulped, “fuck, I just want you to know that I'm here for you, okay? I-If you want me.”

Patrick finally raised his eyes to meet Pete's. The witch looked at him with pursed lips and sweat at his brow, and his hand felt warm and clammy over his own. “Pete, I... ”

Pete quickly let go. “Or not. It's okay, I just... wanted to let you know that if you needed... someone to talk to, I'm just. Here.” God, this was getting more embarassing by the minute. Of _course_ Patrick wouldn't want him, he was a hot mess of a person, what was he thinking?

Patrick reached out and took Pete's hand again. “Thank you.” When Pete smiled at him, Patrick's stomach did backflips, and for a moment, he felt hope spring into his being. He couldn't tell Pete, not yet, he couldn't bear to scare him away with the burden of his past, but here they were, holding hands despite being strangers just a day before, Pete offering him his trust and presence. It was enough to make him start weeping again.

A knock interrupted their moment. Joe stood by the open door, bedraggled but smiling knowingly. “I hate to ruin the moment, but I think I need you guys to go. I'm leaving in a bit, but I still need to clean up and shit, so if you don't mind...?”

“Oh, yeah, no,” Patrick said, standing up. “Let me just...” He did his best to fix Joe's rumpled sheets, hands flying over the folds to smooth them down. He owed Joe so much, and this was the least, barest minimum he could do for the guy.

Pete stood up so he wouldn't block Patrick. While Patrick busied himself with the sheets, he gave Joe a silent nod.

“Are you...?” Joe mouthed, pointing between the two of them.

Pete could only shrug. Something _was_ there, they'd both established that with the handholding earlier, but he wasn't sure what.

Joe nodded and gave him a thumbs-up.

“There, I guess,” Patrick said. “Sorry if it's not the way you fix your sheets.”

“No problem,” Joe said, throwing an arm around the smaller man. He escorted Pete and Patrick to the door. “You'll be okay, man, got that? I'm always here when you need me,” he said pulling Patrick into a hug. “You're good.”

“I can't thank you enough.”

“Anytime, Patrick.” He let go. “And besides, you've also got Pete here. You're good.” He looked to Pete. “Right, Pete? You'll take care of him?”

Pete felt himself blush. “Yeah, that's what friends are for.” He cringed after realizing what he'd just said—Patrick was way, _way_ more than just a friend at this point.

“Good. Well, get some rest, and have some dinner later. I'll text Andy and tell him you guys are coming to _Pretty Odd_ later.”

“Oh, that's good, you guys are friends again,” Patrick said, brightening. When he watched Joe catch himself and chew on his lower lip, he regretted even speaking. “I mean... fuck, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have.”

Joe shook his head. “No, it's okay. I'll text Spencer instead. Get some rest, man.”

Patrick wanted to say more, but he nodded and started walking towards his own apartment. Once his back was turned, Joe stared at Pete. “Take care of him.”

Pete agreed wordlessly and followed Patrick into his home, shutting the door behind him.

 

***

 

It was barely noon but Andy already felt tired. There seemed to be more customers than usual today, and a coffeemaker had jammed more than once already. Not to mention the fact that he'd always look up from whatever he was doing to check if Joe had walked into the shop with every chime of the bell above the door. He hated how his chest would always contract with hope, and then loosen with dejection once he was sure that, no, it wasn't Joe.

He arranged the saucers and wiped the counter down with more effort than was necessary. Not even a good cup of coffee would rouse his spirits. His best friend was still avoiding him. He still had no idea how to fix this problem.

“Yo, I'm heading to the back, is that okay?” Ryan asked, tapping him on the shoulder.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Andy said without sparing Ryan a look, nodding and then spraying the counter _again_.

The younger man wrinkled his nose. “If you don't stop, the whole shop's going to smell of disinfectant.”

“Hygiene is very important, Ryan,” Andy countered, still spraying and wiping.

Ryan watched on. Spray, wipe. Spray, wipe. At the third cycle of Andy's spraying and wiping, he decided Andy had to get himself together. “I can't take this anymore. Give me your phone.”

Spray, wipe. Spray, wipe. Andy was frowning now.

“Dude. _Andy_.”

Spray.

“ _Andy_. Come on, you're going to give the cupcakes an aftertaste.”

“The display's made of glass.”

Huffing, Ryan walked towards Andy and forcefully took the rag and disinfectant away. Part of him felt fear—this was a guy who could literally tear his throat out with his bare hands, and yet here he was. Thankfully, Andy didn't put up too much of a fight, giving an offended “hey” but allowing the younger man to do as he pleased. “Phone,” Ryan pressed, once the disinfectant was out of the werewolf's reach.

“That's going too far, man.”

“I'm not going to watch you sulk around all day.”

“But you said to give him space—”

“Fuck what I said!” Ryan interrupted. “Fuck it. You gotta call him. Or text, at least.”

Andy took his phone out of his back pocket and held it in both hands, as if it was a handful of water that would spill through the cracks of his fingers if he wasn't careful. As his reflection on the screen stared him down, he realized his whole situation with Joe was the same. “What do I say?”

Ryan took a deep breath. “Tell him you need to see him. And that you need to talk.”

“And then what?”

“What do you mean, 'then what'?”

“I mean what do I say when he actually comes to see me?”

The younger man smiled softly. “You'll know what to say. Trust me.”

Andy pursed his lips. “Fine. But I need to think about what I have to say first. I've already fucked this up more than enough. I... I need this to be right.” He held his phone out to Ryan. “In the meantime, hold on to this.”

“Andy, not to be rude, but what the fuck.”

“I just need you to hold it for me while I think!”

“Please don't wuss out on this.”

“I'm not!”

A woman at the counter cleared her throat. “Um, is this a bad time?”

“No it's not, ma'am, what can I get you?” Andy said, his expression flipping like a switch. He gave Ryan a pointed look after he took the woman's order, and only relaxed once the younger man slipped his phone into his pocket with a grumble. “Thank you, Ryan.”

Ryan grumbled his way back into the kitchen, waving a hand of dismissal.

The hours ticked by and before Andy knew it, it was was getting dark. The clock on the wall said 8:00. There were only a few customers left in the little shop: a young woman seated by the window, her legs tucked under her and _Pride and Prejudice_ open before her; a group of old men laughing over cups of coffee (hazelnut, Andy remembered); a teenage couple near the counter. In the dimming afternoon light, reality in the shop seemed altered, like the slight chatter slowed time down around him, lulling him into a false sense of calm.

“Hurley, you got a text,” Ryan said, handing him his phone. “Or... texts. It kept vibrating.”

Andy's heart started beating a bit faster. “Did you see who it was?”

“It said it was from Joe?” the younger man shrugged.

The werewolf grabbed the phone and quickly swiped up to see what the text said.

_Hey._

_In case u deleted my number, it's joe aka the world's worst friend._

_so. can I see you?? like_

_can I go to Pretty Odd? it's ok if you don't want me to._

“Ryan,” Andy said, heart beating triple time, “did I receive these this afternoon?”

“I think so? I didn't notice because of the rush, sorry.” Ryan refilled the napkin cozy and walked over to see the texts. “Why, what'd he say?”

Andy looked at him with horror. “He said he's coming over.”

“Oh, perfect, now you guys can talk!”

“What happened to giving him space?”

“Obviously that isn't going to work because you're borderline neurotic without talking to him!” When Andy sputtered, he rolled his eyes and peered at the phone. “Okay. When did he say he was coming?”

“He didn't say anything, I haven't even replied yet.”

“We're closing soon, I guess it's okay to say in thirty minutes.”

Andy just stared down at his phone, mouth pursed.

“Dude, are you okay?”

“I...” Andy started. “I'm scared, man. I don't know what's going to happen. What do I say when he gets here? Do I say sorry? Or do I let him say things first?”

“We'll cross that bridge when we get there. Text him. He's waiting.”

Time seemed to trickle slow like honey as Andy pressed keys and hit SEND. _We're closing soon. Come by in 30._

All that was left to do now was wait.

 

***

 

It was late, but Pete hadn't gone home yet. He and Patrick were seated on Patrick's bed, the younger man warm and lying back on Pete's chest. Patrick traced the lines in Pete's hands. The witch found his motions relaxing. He spent as much time as he could with Patrick, asking him as much as he would allow about his past, and telling him quite a lot about his. They had gotten past the awkward, groping-in-the-dark stage of the soulmate situation, and now they were on the same page.

“So, your friend's taking care of Bowie?” Patrick asked again. He felt kind of guilty that Pete had to spend nearly all day with him all of a sudden that he had to leave his dog alone for a few hours.

“Yeah, Meagan's got him. She left work early, she's currently at my place,” Pete assured, reading the latext text from the woman. “Don't worry.”

“Right.”

“So,” Pete said, breaking the silence.

“Hmm?”

“I'm your soulmate, right? And you're my soulmate?”

“And...?”

“What do I do now?”

Patrick shifted in his arms. “What do you mean?”

Pete shrugged. “Y'know, what are my requirements? What do I do to... keep you okay?”

“You talk about it like it's a job.”

“I don't wanna fuck this up.” Pete murmured, more into Patrick's hair. “This feels right. I don't wanna fuck up.”

“You're not going to. You won't.” Patrick sighed. “You know, I never thought it would go like this.”

“What, our second date?” Pete joked, wanting to lighten the mood.

“What? No,” the Siren laughed. “I meant meeting my own soulmate. The earliest memories I have are those of my mom telling me that when she first laid eyes on my dad, both of them burst into tears.” He twined his and Pete's fingers together. “They were at a train station, and they'd never met each other before. My mom stepped off the platform, saw him, and just... knew.”

“Wow...”

“I know, right?”

Pete let his chin rest on Patrick's shoulder. “Well, sorry for not being as overwhelming, I guess?”

“Hey. It's not your fault,” Patrick said, softly nudging Pete's head with his own. “Both of them were... pure,” he explained, avoiding the S-Word. “They were the same. You're a witch. That's a big leap.”

“But I made us the odd couple,” Pete mumbled.

“You 're helping _me_ survive. _We_ are the last couple,” Patrick firmly said. “I... I'm just happy there's going to be someone here for me now. After all that's happened.” Still met with unnerving silence, Patrick pushed himself off the witch. “You're here. With me. We're different, but that's okay. And I'm... I'm not just saying this because of this bond, Pete. I-I'm happy it's you.” He shuffled closer and put his forehead to Pete's. “You can do this. I believe in you.”

Pete felt a tear slide down his cheek. “Holy shit,” he laughed, wiping it away. But the tears kept falling. “Dude, I can't stop crying, what did you do to me?”

The Siren could only laugh in response. He and Pete laughed at themselves, at the absurdity of who they were, of who they were about to become, until they were both in tears and red in the face.

“S-so this is it, huh?” Pete said, sniffling.

“Yeah, I guess it is.”

Pete left later that night, after Patrick had assured him he was going to be fine on his own, after all that happened. He was going to order takeout and probably stay at Joe's for a bit, and then sleep early. It had been a very trying day, and it overwhelmed him.

Once Pete was gone, Patrick spent a few minutes reveling in the silence of his apartment. Things had escalated far too quickly for him and Pete, he realized, and he still wished he could have taken his time with... everything. He laid on the floor, breathing interspersed with the sound of muffled traffic and life outside his glass windows. He felt frayed, like he was made of thread and slowly but surely he was being pulled apart, one flimsy string after another.

Soon it started to rain. Patrick gave himself another couple of minutes on the floor before getting up to text Pete.

_Be safe._

God, his dreams were probably going to be a mess tonight.

 

***

 

Andy was alone at the Pretty Odd, mop in hand and apron still tight around his waist. He promised to close up shop on his own tonight, which was convenient since he had another problem he had to deal with tonight, and he wanted it dealt with in a safe, private place. He hummed a nameless tune to himself as he cleaned the shop, for a moment enoying the quiet and the contrast of the rain outside.

Joe hadn't come by earlier. He said he'd come thirty minutes after Andy texted him, but he didn't. Andy wasn't mad about it, he was just... disappointed.

A loud rapping on the glass doors of the shop, startling him. He looked up to see Joe, who vaguely resembled a wet, upset dog. His mop of curls deflated under the rain, jacket soaked in patches. Part of Andy wanted to laugh at the sight really, but then he remembered the gravity of the situation between them.

Also, it was fucking raining cats and dogs outside. He should probably let Joe in.

The clairvoyant rushed in as soon as the door was unlocked, his steps creating little puddles on the freshly mopped floor.

“Andy, I—”

“Joe—”

Ah, shit.

Andy fiddled with the hem of his apron. “You first.”

“Are you...? I mean—do you have a spare roll of paper towels? I feel like I'm messing up your work.”

“Were you watching me mop the floor?”

“Clairvoyant, remember?”

“Oh, right.”

Joe laughed. “It's only been two days or so and you've already forgotten about me.” When he saw the downcast expression on Andy's face, he wished he could swallow his tongue. “... Bad joke. Sorry.”

The sound of water dripping into puddles from the ends of his clothes filled the quiet.

“So. Um. Paper towels?”

“No, yeah, sure. Come on, it's warmer in the kitchen.”

Upon reaching the kitchen, Joe peeled the wet jacket off his shoulders and toed his soaked shoes off. His shirt was still also kind of wet, and he wanted to take it off as well, but all the familiarity of their friendship had fizzled out after their fight. He embraced the slight chill instead.

Andy reheated some leftover corn soup in silence.

“Look, you don't have to...” Joe meandered, watching his friend stir the pot of soup.

“No, it's fine. You need something warm in your system.”

“I could just make myself some coffee.”

“You smell like cigarette smoke and breadsticks, you need to eat.”

With that, Joe shut up. He leaned on a shelf and allowed Andy to look out for him. Again. Just like he always has. There was a cocktail of emotions swirling around in his gut, and he wanted to throw up. “Andy?”

“Hm?” Andy said, not turning around.

“I'm... sorry.”

The werewolf stopped stirring the soup. “Me too.” He turned the stove off and let the soup sit, so he could face Joe. “I've been thinking about the first time. When you first said... that. That you loved me.” He took a clean bowl from the dishwasher and started filling it with soup. “Do you still remember? We were in that ratty apartment, when we were back in college.”

Joe snorted. “You had that weird, _Point Break_ kind of hair. And the tongue peircing.”

“God, that peircing got me into a lot of trouble with my mom,” Andy laughed.

“Yeah.”

“It was a night like this too, wasn't it? It was raining.”

“You also bought me soup back then,” Joe remembered, smiling down at his bare feet. He looked up at Andy, who gave him a meaningful smile, bowl of soup in his hands. “I've been a real dick. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be too sorry,” Andy said, handing Joe the bowl, fingertips brushing. “I... You were right. I should have let you move on before asking if we could still be friends. I should have kept my distance. I led you on. I'm sorry.”

“Are you thinking about staying away from me?”

“It doesn't take reading minds to know that's probably the best way to solve... this.”

“What if I don't want to move on?”

Joe's eyes were full of honesty this time. The last time Andy had seen them, they had so much hurt. Now he was just... determined. “What?”

“I love you, Andy. Still do, after four years. Probably always will.” Joe set the bowl on the shelf behind him. “I'm sorry, but a really big part of me doesn't want to move on from something that wasn't even there to begin with. I don't care if it hurts me, it probably will, but fuck that shit. Andy Hurley, not even the universe imploding will keep me away. I'm sorry.”

And just like that, Andy was rendered speechless.

“Dude, come on, don't leave me hanging here,” Joe said, making a face. He took his bowl of soup and took a sip. “Say something.”

Andy walked to Joe's side. They stood there, arm to arm. Andy was still speechless, still looking for the courage in himself to say something, at least thank Joe. To love was a risk, especially in this situation, but Joe loved nonetheless. “I envy you, man.”

“What do you mean?”

“You're so brave.”

Joe took another long sip. “Being brave is still being scared, but still having the guts to just do what you're scared of anyway. There's still fear. I'm scared as fuck, but I'll do this anyway.”

Andy hummed in response. He mulled over what Joe said. “I wanna be brave, man. Really.”

“Then answer this question.”

“Shoot.”

“Do you want to love me?”

Andy still couldn't look at Joe, his heart was beating so fast. “Yes.”

“Are you scared?”

He thought of his pack. “God, yes. Terrified.”

Joe smiled into the bowl of soup in his hands. “Good. We're scared together then, I guess.”

The wolf leaned his head on Joe's shoulder. “I guess.”

The rain poured on outside. The pot of soup on the stove was beginning to get cold. Drops of cold water dripped from Joe's hair and into the nape of Andy's shirt. Andy lifted his head. “We're gonna be good, right?”

“Yeah,” Joe smiled. Despite the obvious fear about how Andy's pack was going to react to their... whatever they now had, a vision of Andy smiling at him, somewhere sunny and warm, settled in his mind. “We're going to be just fine.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just noticed this chapter's like 5 pages shorter than the others??? yikes
> 
> tune in for more Gay Shit haha i hope you enjoyed this one! feel free to comment/yell at me in the comments ahahahaaaaa


	8. Early Evenings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY HOLIDAYS MY DEAREST PEEPS
> 
> IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT: I've only planned 12 chapters for this fic. Since it is part of a series, I wanted this to be like an introductory fic, kinda like to set the ground for individual stories in the same AU. I really like this urban fantasy AU, so i've already drafted different fics with different pairings in the same universe (ryden, trohley, etc.), so don't fret! :D
> 
> i hope you enjoy this (short) chapter!!

 

Thank God it was finally Friday. Fridays, to Ryan, meant ending his afternoon shift early because Jon and Spencer were around. He undid the first two buttons of his shirt and slung his messenger bag's strap around himself. “I'll see you guys tomorrow, yeah?” he said as he took a cookie from a cooling tray.

“Sure—dude! Come on!” Spencer said. “Stop taking the treats before they've cooled!”

“Too late, man. This one's got my fingerprints on it.”

Spencer threw a dish towel, which Ryan dodged. “Get out of my sight, Ross. And while you're at it, take the trash out.”

“I'm already on my way out.”

“Nice, and I agree, but please don't quit your day job, Ross. You have zero future in stand-up,” Spencer said, pointing his oven mitt in the direction of the trash bins.

Once the trash was out, and he had a small doggy bag of Spencer's freshly baked treats, Ryan started his commute to his favorite spot at the marina. It was rare that he had this much time off, and he wanted to finish a few poems so he could upload them to his blog. Call him an odd millenial, but having strangers online appreciate the things he wrote gave him a sense of fulfillment that sometimes a paycheck couldn't bring.

By the time he got to his spot, he'd finished half of his snacks. Which kind of made him guilty because... well. He actually wanted to eat them later tonight. He did not, by any means hope a certain mer-boy would visit him and share. Not at all. He took his journal out and toed his shoes off. Maybe this time, if he stretched his feet far enough, his toes would touch the surface of the water.

“You have really short legs,” Brendon sang, breaking the surface and tickling Ryan's sole, making him yelp.

“Goddammit, Brendon!” Ryan scolded, recoiling and tucking his foot under him. Fuck, that guy's hands were cold.

Brendon laughed. “How've you been? I missed you,” he whined, swimming in circles and drawing out the last syllable.

“I've been great, actually. Thanks for asking.”

“You smell different?”

“What do you mean?”

Brendon squinted. “You smell... sweet.”

“Woah, don't be weird on me now.”

Brendon gasped. “Do you have sweets? Can I have some? Please?” He grabbed the ends of where Ryan was sitting and pulled himself up. He settled on the wooden floor with a wet _plop!_ “Share!” he yelled, making grabby-hand motions at the other man.

“All right, chill!” Ryan took the bag of Spencer's pastries (or what was left of them) and held it out for Brendon to dig around in. “I didn't know mermaids liked sweets.”

“Are you kidding? When you're surrounded by salt all your life, it gets boring. Sugar,” Brendon said, lifting a cookie, “shakes things up. That's why I love it.”

Ryan watched as the merman's eyes widened as he chewed the cookie. “Good, right?”

“ _Oh my fucking God,”_ Brendon said, wolfing down the rest of the cookie. “This is amazing!” He took some more. “Did a witch make this? There's gotta be some magic in here, this is too good.”

Ryan smiled. “No magic whatsoever. Spencer's just your run-of-the-mill, normal human being.” He plucked the cookie from Brendon's hand and bit into it. “He's just really good at baking.”

“Damn fucking straight.”

The two talked and ate until they could only share crumbs. Ryan dusted his hands and leaned back on his elbows. “Merpeople have a different belief system, right? Like, different gods or something?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Tell me something. An origin myth, if you have any. About anything. Cycles of day or whatever.”

“Sure, but what for?”

“Eh, just need something to tickle my brain. Inspiration, in a way.”

The mermaid raised his eyebrow in interest. “Ooh, so I inspire you?”

Ryan looked at Brendon, and then out to the sea. “Depends.”

“Stop playing hard to get!” Brendon laughed. “I'll tell you, but I need you to flip me over first. My abs are starting to chafe from this wood.”

After a push and a grunt (who knew mermaid tails were so heavy?), Brendon began.

 

_Once, after the Beginning of All Things, the Woman in the Moon sat in the sky and looked over the Earth. She had created everything: the sea for the fish, the land for the beasts, and the clouds for the stars and the wind. It was well. But despite all the power She had, and despite everything that She created, She was unhappy. You see, the Woman had no friends, no other beings like Her that she could laugh and marvel at the Earth with. Every day she would try talking to the stars, but the stars never talked back. Her heart yearned for company._

_Creatures sprang from the earth and lived in darkness, because that was all there was. No light, no joy. Just life in the shadow of the Woman's solitary despair._

 

“That's quite bleak,” Ryan commented.

“Don't fucking judge my heritage,” Brendon said.

 

_The dark limited the creatures, which added to the Woman's sadness. Millenia passed, and all there was on Earth was night. Everything suffered because the world had grown cold._

_Then, the Woman in the Moon met Sola. Sola was the Mistress of the Sun. She made routinely runs around the Universe, but she had never met another One like her. Sola stopped running and stayed with the Woman, warming up to her and giving her the company that She had always craved._

 

“Wait,” Ryan said. “So your moon goddess is a lesbian?”

“She is all that Is, Was, and Ever Will Be, so treat Her with respect.” Brendon wiggled his tail. “Also, I like to believe there were no labels back when this happened. Only love.”

“Huh. Go on.”

 

_Sola and the Woman became fast friends, and eventually they became lovers. The Woman fell for Sola's warmth and strength; and Sola, for the Woman's wisdom and patience. Sola stayed by Her side, and the Sun and Moon shared one lucky sky. The Earth flourished. The Woman was the creator, and Sola was the provider and protector._

_But still, The Woman in the Moon was not satisfied. She wanted a race of Her own, one that She and Sola could love specially, like their own children. Since the creatures in the sea and on land could live on their own, they no longer needed Her guidance._

_And so, The Woman in the Moon made creatures that were both of the land and of the sea. Half-man, and half-fish. She gave them special gifts of healing and song, and loved them as if they had come from her womb. She cherished them, Her Merfolk, so much that Sola grew jealous._

_Sola confronted the Woman, accusing Her that She loved her Merfolk more than her. Despite the Woman's attempts to make Sola understand that She did not love her less, Sola still could not understand. So she created her own race, a line of humans that could control fire like she could; a mirroring of the Woman's own children._

_The Woman's heart broke at Sola's treachery, for she only wanted to share the joys of motherhood with her lover. She attempted to talk to Sola, but Sola, still blinded by rage, set fire to two-thrids of Her Merfolk. A third died, and the other third had their tails burnt and split in two. They became humans who were sad and longed for the ocean that they grew wan and pale. The Woman was distraught, so She sent Sola away._

_Once her lover was gone, The Woman in the Moon made a vow that they would never be close enough to hurt each other again. The Earth was plunged into a darkness worse than before, and the cold stretched for a year._

_Sola came back and begged the Woman for forgiveness, but it was too late, for the Woman's vow was binding. The Universe pulled them apart. They tried to come close and speak, but to no avail._

_And so they ended up chasing each other around the Earth—Sola bringing light and warmth around as she reached out to touch her lover, and the Woman reaching around to touch Sola, swaying the tides with each run. They ran endless circles around one another, only getting close enough to touch, but never being able to hold._

_The only time Sola and The Woman could kiss was once a year, in springtime, and when it happened the sky would turn red and golden with their love. It would only last for a few moments, and the Universe would pull them apart once more, and the cycles would continue._

 

“... And that's our origin story of why the Day follows Night,” Brendon said. “It's so romantic, isn't it?”

Ryan was awestruck. “That's... That's beautiful,” he murmured. He mulled over how poignant it all was, how the Sun loved the Moon so much that she would gladly run for months to spend a few minutes in the Moon's arms. He realized he had never had a love like that before. He wondered if he ever would.

“I know, right?” Brendon smiled. “When I was little, I'd ask my mom to tell me that story every night before sleeping. I would ask her if she would ever do what Sola did, if she loved Dad enough that she would follow him in endless circles just to get to kiss him.” He smiled down at his tail. “She would always say 'I would follow those lips to Hell and back.' It's fucking awesome.” He looked up and saw Ryan staring at him. “What?”

“Nothing, it's just...” Ryan said, shaking his head. “Have you ever loved like that before? Like Sola?”

“Ah. Well, my friend said that I wore my heart on a metaphorical sleeve, so I love really quickly. I'm really hopeless when that happens. I almost got harvested once because of it,” Brendon said. “But a love like that? Can't say I've ever had it that bad. But I'm hopeful.”

The clouds were turning peach in the afternoon light. Ryan looked at his hands. “But Sola and the Woman were so different. Would you be able to love someone who's your exact opposite?”

“Well I'm still here talking to you, am I not?”

Ryan looked to the mermaid. “You saying you're in love with me?” he asked with a small smile.

“I did tell you I fall dangerously quickly. You are no exception to that rule,” Brendon shrugged.

The barista snorted. “You are crazy.”

“You mean fucking genius.”

“How is falling in love with a stranger in any way smart?”

“But you're not a stranger!” Brendon defended. He took Ryan's hand and drew patterns on his palm. “Your name is Ryan, and you have nice feet. Your hair is brown and so are your eyes, you're skinny but you always smell like sweets. You hate tight shoes, but you seem happy about your job. And you,” he said, stopping his motions, “hate to admit it, but you like me.”

“Do I?” Ryan laughed, feeling a blush come up.

“Or you're interested in me, at least,” Brendon concluded.

“But we're worlds apart. We're like Sola and the Woman. Sun and Moon.”

Brendon rolled his eyes. “Dude, I _get_ it, you're human, I'm half-fish. We're _too different_.”

“It's not just that, I'm—” Ryan started, but Brendon cut him off with a cold wet finger to his lips.

“Dude. _Ryan_. Just... roll with it, okay?” Brendon said, taking his hand away. “It's okay if you don't love me yet. It's cool. Be chill about this.”

“But I might hurt you.”

“You won't. If anything, the only one who'll hurt me is me because I'm really dumb about feelings.”

The sound of waves around them lulled Ryan into a sense of security, that, maybe, this was okay. Him being with Brendon would be okay for him. Maybe this time, he wouldn't hurt anyone. He sighed and nodded. “This is crazy. I am crazy.”

“I told you, it's _genius_ ,” Brendon said, smiling and leaning over to kiss him on the mouth.

As he tasted the ocean on Brendon's plump lips, Ryan willed himself to stop his hands from roaming the mermaid's bare upper body. _Soon_ , he thought, focusing on how nice his tongue felt against Brendon's instead. _Soon._

 

***

 

Patrick woke up, head spinning, to the pinging on his phone. God, he slept the _whole_ day? He stood up and stretched, and then went to his windows to draw the curtains. Lights of different buildings came on through their windows, making it seem as if the different infrastructures were blinking in the downtown dusk. He had some songs to finish for a couple of clients, so he had to get to work soon. He headed to the kitchen to make himself some tea, and plugged his keyboard in on the way back to the bedroom.

He picked his phone up and couldn't help but blush when he saw a series of messages from Pete. A bit alarming, but cute. He proceeded to read through them, only to be surprised that the first photo message was _not_ Pete, but the woman he was with, the first time they met.

It was a close-up picture, shot at an angle that made her nostrils look bigger than the rest of the features on her pretty face.

_Hello patrick are u petey pie's new baaaae?_

_im meagan call me mj or meg or mom haha_

_w a k e u p_

_honestly I hope u wake up soon, pete isn't entertaining me aaaaaahhhh_

_wanna get to know u ;))_

The next message was another photo, this time of Pete. He was sprawled on top of a pile of papers on a carpeted floor, Bowie sniffing at his butt. Patrick laughed and continued reading.

_he dead._

_talk to meeeeee im not mean I promise_

_pete would say otherwise but thats bc we're friends_

_PATRICK PLS_

Patrick started typing out a reply. _**Hi Meagan! just woke up, sorry.**_

Not a minute later, his phone lit up with another message. _OMG HI YOU'RE FINALLY UP!!! NOW TELL ME ARE U AND PETE A Thing???? ;))))_

_**I'm honestly not sure??? haha** _

**_but I really really like him. :)_** Patrick texted, deciding to keep the soulmate bit out.

 _don't do this to me, Patrick,,,, pls,,,,, my crops are dyinggg,,,, bowie and I need to knowww,,,,_ Meagan sent a photo of her making a sad face, the witch's familiar under her arm.

Patrick bit his lip. _**Ask Pete haha :)**_

Soon enough he received another photo message, this time of a blurry, caught-in-motion kind. He had to squint, but he could make out the sleeping figure of Pete, and Meagan's right house-slippered foot in the middle of kicking Pete's leg. Not strangely enough, the reply came a couple of minutes later.

_heyyyy im awake asgdfhj had to wrestle my phone away from meagan_

_**Same, I also just woke up. :) How's your leg?** _

_I AM SURE THERE'S A BRUISE ON THE SIDE OF MY LEG NOW FUCKIN HELL!!! SHE IS A HORRIBLE FRIEND I SUFFER EVERY DAY!!!_

_**Ahahaha noooo don't say that, I think she's quite nice!** _

Pete sent Patrick a picture of Meagan seated at the bottom step of the stairs, looking smug. _I made her sit on the Naughty Step, she doesn't deserve your kindness smhh_

_what u up to???_

Patrick brought his phone to the living room and set it on the nearby table as he readied his music sheets. _**Getting ready to compose some stuff for clients. you?**_

_nothin much. supposed to answer some letters but I am bored._

_can I call u??? i'm calling u hold on_

Patrick's phone started ringing. “Hey, you.”

“Hey,” Pete said. “How are you?”

“I'm good, setting up for work. Keep talking, I'm putting you on speaker,” Patrick said as he set his phone down.

“Are you gonna be up all night?”

“Probably. I'm kind of behind on one arrangement, so it's a possibility.”

“Remember to get some rest, though.”

Patrick smiled. Pete's concern felt so domestic, it made him blush. “I will, don't worry. You should rest too. Get some ice on that leg,” he joked.

Pete laughed. “Hey, so I was thinking...”

“Yeah?”

“I want to... Rather, can I come over?”

Taken aback, Patrick asked why. “I mean—aren't you busy? I'd hate to interrupt your work.”

“Would it be too corny if I said I wanted to see you? Because I really do.”

In the background, Patrick could hear Meagan teasing Pete.

“Only if you bring Meagan and Bowie with you,” Patrick said, smiling.

“Nice, that's a done deal. We'll be there in probably thirty minutes. I can't wait to see you.”

“Pete?”

“Yeah?”

Patrick bit his lower lip. “... I can't wait to see you, too.” He was greeted with silence, then heard shifting on the other end. “Pete?”

“Pete is currently screaming into some throw pillows, what'd you say to him?” Meagan laughed. “Like, he's actually face down on the couch! I think you broke him.”

“Nothing! I told him I also wanted to see you guys,” the Siren laughed.

“He's still screaming. See you soon!”

“Be safe!” Patrick said. After ending the call, he put his phone down and got to work. It had been a long week, and if he was being honest, he missed getting swallowed up in his work. Despite coming to hate what he was, he could not bring himself to resent the music that came naturally to him. With every key, every note he scribbled onto his sheets, he felt protected. As if every sound shrouded him from every bad memory and intention the world had for him. Music grounded him, and he'd gladly trade anything to keep it.

He was halfway into finishing one arrangement when someone knocked on his door. Smiling, he stood up and spoke. “I hope you have Bowie with you, or I'm kicking you both out,” he joked as he opened the door.

“I couldn't! What kind of monster do you think I am?” Pete said, beaming and tugging at the dog's leash. At his side was Meagan, resplendent and, by the looks of it, pretty excited to see him. “I believe introductions aren't in order, since this piece of work already talked to you over the phone,” the witch said, nodding in Meagan's direction.

“Shut up,” the woman said, elbowing Pete's side. “It's great to meet you! Pete's told me so much about you, Patrick.”

“Did he, now?”

“Nah, she just read our previous texts,” Pete said.

“He's a bad liar but you'll get used to him,” Meagan smiled, clutching Patrick's hand. “You are _adorable_. I need to know more about what happened after I left that cafe.”

“Sure, come on in.”

With that,Meagan took Bowie's leash and pranced into the room, giving the two some space.

“Also,” Pete said, lifting a cup holder loaded with cups filled with what smelled like coffee, “I brought some you some coffee, since you'll be working late. Actually, no, it's not all yours, Meagan made me buy some for her too.”

Patrick laughed and welcomed the witch in. “I don't mind. Sorry about the mess, I was in the middle of something,” he said as he tidied up his music sheets. “I'm not sure if I have anything to go with coffee, though. I'll go check.”

Meagan plopped herself on his couch. “No, it's fine! But can I explore your place?”

“It's her thing,” Pete supplied as he put the coffee on a nearby table.

“Yup. But it's okay if you don't want me to.”

“No, go right ahead,” Patrick nodded. “Nothing much to see anyway. Sorry.”

“Hey, who am I to judge?” She left the living room, Bowie at her heels.

Pete went to Patrick and enveloped him in a hug. “Hey,” he muttered, inhaling the scent of Patrick's hair.

Patrick laughed and hugged him back. “Hey yourself.”

The two of them just stood there in each other's arms for minutes until their breathing was in sync. Patrick could feel Pete's heart beating wildly in his chest, and it was strange, because his own heart was, too. “This is nice...” he muttered.

“Same. I can feel the stress just _melt_ off my shoulders,” Pete said before letting Patrick go. “How are you? Did you sleep well?”

“In all fairness, yeah, I've slept well so far.” Patrick said, making his way to the couch. “After you left, I had a dreamless sleep. Which is very rare.”

“Woah, really? Rare?” Pete said in shock, sitting with the Siren.

“Yeah. It's... a thing. But I have a feeling I'm only going to have good dreams from now on,” Patrick smiled, tucking his legs under him. “Thank you.”

“Psh, what're you thanking me for?” Pete said, throwing an arm around him. “I'm just happy to have that kind of effect on at least one person. You know,” he said, letting his feet rest on the coffee table in front of them. “I've never felt this secure about myself before. Like, relationship-wise.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like... with my exes, with Meagan before, I felt happy. But I never felt like I was the one _making_ them happy. I always felt like I was simply sharing the good times with them. I never felt like I could confidently say, 'I am so glad I'm making _you_ happy.' Am I making sense? I don't think I'm making sense.”

“Pete,” Patrick said, laying a hand on the witch's knee. “Don't say that. I'm sure you've made a lot of people happy. You just... I don't want you to think of your effect on others to be just that, okay? Not when I'm around.” He squeezed his knee. “ _You_ are special. And you can be damn sure, when you call those exes right now, that they will agree with me when I say you made them as happy as they did you. You make _me_ very happy, and I've only known you for about a week now. So I never want to hear you say that about yourself ever again, all right?” He leaned close and kissed Pete's cheek. “You're _my_ soulmate. And I am yours. And I am so happy because I'm never going to be alone again. Get that?”

“Holy shit, You just gave me goosebumps. Is that a normal soulmate thing? Like, really?”

Patrick laughed. “I rarely get dramatic, but you have that effect on me, I guess.”

“Patrick!” Meagan yelled from his room. “Just how many hats do you have? You could sell a ton of these!”

Patrick laughed and stood up, making his way to his room. “I've got more than ten, but there are some I don't use. If you see something you like, you can have it.”

“Aw, nice!”

As Pete listened to Meagan and Patrick talk about hats and shoes and other things faintly in the man's room, he stood up to get the coffee and wondered how on earth he got so lucky. He whispered a small spell for comfort as he stirred sugar into his and Meagan's cups, and a spell for creativity for Patrick.

“Petey-pie, how do I look?” Meagan asked.

Pete turned around to see his friend in the doorway of Patrick's room, wearing a Von Dutch hat on top of three different hats stacked on top of each other. She struck a pose akin to that of a cowboy, sticking her finger-guns in his directions. “Howdy, boy. Like what you see?”

“You look so gross,” the witch laughed, bringing the coffee back to the couch. “But strangely enough, you've never looked better.”

“I, for one disagree, I think you look ravishing,” Patrick countered, emerging from his room wearing a beanie.

Pete gasped. “Oh, now _that_ is a look,” he said, pointing at Patrick and earning a hearty laugh from the other man.

“I call a bullshit biased system here,” Meagan said, reaching for her cup.

“Nah, he's just cuter,” Pete said, winking. Meagan settled on the couch while Patrick made his way to the keyboard. “Here you go, Trick. Plain black coffee. I wasn't sure what you wanted, but I remember what you ordered at the cafe, so...”

Patrick felt a blush rise on his cheeks as he accepted the cup. “You remembered?”

“How could I forget?”

“God, stop reminding me how single I am,” Meagan groaned from the couch. “Ah, before I forget—Patrick, has Pete invited you to my art event yet?”

“Not yet, I think?”

“Oh shit, I forgot,” Pete said, without any actual concern in his voice. Bowie came out of the bathroom and sat at his feet. “Pattycakes, wanna go to an art event?”

“I don't mind, I'd love to.”

Pete faced Meagan and clicked his tongue. “Problem solved.”

“Where did all the romance from earlier go?” Meagan joked, shaking her head. “Anyway, it's kind of a formal event, so I need you guys to dress nice. Also, come with an appetite.”

Okay, that was kind of weird. “Why?”

“I'll need as much help as possible with some pastries. We ordered too many cannolis.”

“Huh. When is this?” Patrick asked.

“Tomorrow.”

The Siren felt his heart drop to his stomach. “I have nothing to wear, I—maybe I shouldn't go, I don't wanna be the sore thumb...” he reasoned, biting his lip. He wanted to go, really, he did. But he couldn't bear to be in public looking like a sack of potatoes in a fancy setting. Not when he was with Pete. He remembered his parents always looking equally regal when they were invited to events at his school—he wanted to look perfect for Pete the same way his mother did for his dad. “I'm sorry.”

“Hey, you're not gonna be a sore thumb,” Pete said, walking towards him. He leaned down and kissed Patrick's soft hair. “I'm not going anywhere without you, and also, you already look great. We'll find you something to wear, don't you worry.”

“I don't want to bother anyone—”

“Patrick.”

Now, when Pete said his name in _that_ kind of way, Patrick knew to shut up and just trust him.

“There's nobody else I'd rather go to an art show and eat weird Italian pastries with than you. Okay?”

“... Okay.”

Pete straightened his back and put his hands on his hips. “And besides, you're already like, walking artwork. If there's anyone who should be pressured to look good, it should be me. Chin up, buttercup,” he winked.

“Gay,” Meagan teased, grinning like a Cheshire cat. It was great seeing Pete start to care for someone again. It made him glow with a delight that she hadn't seen from him ever since they broke up. Heck, she's not even sure she made him _this_ happy. Either way, she was glad his weird witchy instincts brought him to Patrick. This was good for him.

“Shut your mouth,” Pete replied, sticking his tongue out at her. “Okidokes, this is what we'll do. You'll finish your arrangement tonight, I promise you we won't bother you, and then we'll help you pick out what you'll wear. We can come by early tomorrow to help. Okay?”

“Hold on—you already _have_ something to wear?” Meagan asked.

“Fuck yeah, I got this yellow suit that I had no idea what to wear to,” Pete proudly said.

“You own a yellow suit?” Patrick laughed.

“You own a _suit_?” Meagan added.

“Okay, now you guys are just fuckin' with me.”

Before the night ended, Patrick had one finished arrangement and a sleeping Meagan on his couch. Bowie was softly snoring on the floor, and Pete was on a chair next to Patrick. “Well, that's one thing off my list,” Patrick said, voice low so he wouldn't wake them up. He carefully piled his sheets together and held them together with a paperclip. When he finished packing up, he noticed Pete staring at him the way a blind man would the first time he sees colors. “What?”

“You're fucking magical,” Pete said, a fond smile on his lips.

Patrick smiled and shook his head. “You're just not used to hearing my singing voice up close, you'll get used to it. It's... a thing. You'll outgrow it.”

“Fuck, I wish I don't. I'd rather go blind than get tired of hearing that.”

Patrick dropped to a whisper. “I put Meagan and your familiar to sleep. By accident. It's not something I'm proud of, Pete.”

Pete sighed. “May I?” he asked, before putting an arm around the man's waist. When Patrick nodded, he pulled him closer until their sides touched. “I wish you could see how amazing you are, man. I get it—you've learned to resent what you are and what you can do. But please give me a chance to make you see yourself the way I see you.”

“It's just... really hard. I don't know how to control it, I have no idea what I can do, all I keep getting are surprise results. At this point in my life, after everything I've been through, I just... don't want to be surprised anymore.”

The witch hooked his chin on Patrick's shoulder. “I understand. But promise me something.”

“Hmm.”

“Promise me you'll teach yourself to un-hate yourself. When you do that resentment thing with yourself, I get a funny feeling inside, and that must mean something since we're soulmates now. Got that?”

This time, it was Patrick's turn to sigh. “I'll try.”

“There's my guy,” Pete smiled. He pressed a kiss into the man's shoulder. “I got your back, Trick. Ride or die.”

Patrick let his hands idly play a nameless tune on the keys, reveling in the way their heartbeats synced with each other. “Ride or die.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i realized that this is also 5 pages shorter than my standard 21-page chapter ahahaha
> 
> i'm on tumblr!!! hit me up, ask me stuff about this fic :D @baninabread.tumblr.com


	9. Consider the Good Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Lunar New Year!!!! Here's a chapter (late as always rip). this fic is almost done aaaaahhhh
> 
> in other news, i'm planning to move out soon because i found a better job that pays enough so i can afford to move, so yaaay! (i live in an Asian country, so it's rare for a young person like me to move out before i'm even super set on a career, so this is a pretty big deal!!)
> 
> also, i created a side blog where you can ask me questions about this AU, discuss headcanons, and submit stuff. basically, we can be nerds about this together, i love talking to readers hehe!! 
> 
> talk to meeee, i am lonelyyyyy --> @what-a-wonderful-world.tumblr.com

“So,” Joe said.

“So,” Andy repeated, only this time raising his eyebrows to acknowledge the shitstorm that was coming to them.

“Dude, I don't understand how we can't just keep this a secret for a little while,” Joe exhaled, leaning back on his headboard. He and Andy were discussing the terms of their relationship. Which, to Joe, felt like bullshit, because: a.) Relationships were not like online networking sites where one has to agree to terms, and b.) Werewolves were perceptive, but they weren't mind-readers. “Can't we just, I don't know, be in the closet about this? We don't need some convoluted scheme to keep it under wraps.”

“For a clairvoyant, you're pretty fuckin' dumb sometimes, you know that?” Andy said.

“It's a relationship, not a nuclear bomb.”

“The way some people in my pack are, it's almost as bad as that.” When he heard Joe grumble beside him, he leaned back as well. “Look—this is for your own safety. Not everyone's open to the idea of an Alpha dating a non-wolf. The fact that you're also not vegan is icing on the cake. Not to mention you smoke and drink a lot.”

“Basically your polar opposite.”

“Yup.”

“Isn't it ironic that your pack consists of more or less seven Alphas, and everybody's vegan?”

“How is that ironic?”

“You're _wolves_ , man. Isn't it... I don't know, destroying some natural order or some shit?”

Andy put his legs on top of Joe's. “What's ironic is us being best friends of more than four years and you just asking me about this now.”

“No, I just didn't feel the need to question it, that's all.”

“Huh.” Andy eased himself more into the pillows. He took time to think before speaking again, listening to the morning bustle of the city outside. “Well, we believed it was the right decision to group as much Alphas as possible, so that there would be no power struggle around the city. No leaders, no factions.”

“Makes sense, but the vegan part?”

“Helps with the urges when the full moon comes. It dulls our senses once the time to phase comes, but it doesn't lessen our instincts. Think of it as a sedative, but the healthier, more sensible kind.”

“And the aggression? How do you let that out?”

Andy leans on Joe's shoulder. “That's where gym time comes in. We try to get stronger without having to tap into our wolf side too much. We don't want to dominate, we just want to be able to stand up for those who can't. Especially Omegas who've lost their way.”

Joe hums in thought. “So... does this mean your pack is basically a beefed-up protection squad?”

“I do not appreciate the not-vegan-friendly pun, but yeah. More or less.” Andy ran a hand through Joe's hair. “Dude, you really fuckin' need a haircut.”

“Maybe later. What about the other packs? Like, has there ever been a rumble? A... skirmish?”

Andy laughed, making Joe's heart skip a beat. “You make it sound like _West Side Story._ Once, yeah. Territory troubles with the old alphas of their side. But it's all cool now.”

“Oh, nice.”

“Yeah.” Andy sat up. “Now that I've answered your questions, get up. I'm helping you cut your hair, come on.”

Joe allowed himself to be pulled up by Andy, reveling in the controlled strength he had. There were times he'd forget the vast differences between the kinds of Others they were, but he enjoyed little displays like this. The two went to the bathroom, Joe rummaging the cabinets for a pair of scissors and his electric razor while Andy sat on the counter near the sink.

“You look adorable. Fuck, it feels great to say that out loud,” Joe smiled, plugging the razor in.

“Don't forget, I can kick your ass in many different ways.”

“But you're shorter than me.”

“Only by a few inches, shut the fuck up, Trohman,” Andy snapped, swinging his leg out to hit the other man's hip. “So. You obviously need my help with this, so what kind of look do you wanna go for?”

“I was thinking of going bald...” Joe deadpanned.

“I've seen your high school yearbook, and _that_ was not a good look for you,” Andy snorted, taking the scissors from Joe.

“I don't fucking know, dude, just make me look cool,” Joe shrugged. He lifted his hand and rubbed the short hair at the back of Andy's head. It wasn't completely shaved off, but it was closely cut to his scalp so when he rubbed his hands on it, it felt oddly mesmerizing. “Kinda like your hair.”

And so Andy got to work. The snipping sound of the scissors bounced off the walls as soft brown tendrils fell like snow to the bathroom floor. Once the hair was short enough, he started shaving closely, making Joe hum under the razor. “Don't fall asleep on me now,” he murmured, doing his best to make the fade as clean as possible without nicking the clairvoyant's neck.

“Feels nice,” Joe said, eyes closed. Andy's hands were light on him, but whenever he felt a tug on his hair, he could not help but let his eyelids flutter close.

A few more snips and soon Andy announced that he was done. “You might wanna take a shower, you've got hair all over you.” He dusted Joe's shoulders lightly.

“Yeah, sure.” Joe turned around to see himself in the mirror.

“Like it?”

Joe ran his hands over the freshly-shaved part, admiring how refreshing it was to see this part of his neck again. He looked pretty good with an undercut, to be honest. He looked much younger too. “I can't stop touching the back of my head. It looks great.”

“Great.” Andy smiled. “Take a shower, you're going to itch if you don't.” When Joe started taking his shirt off, he hopped off the counter and stepped aside so Joe could look at himself again. He leaned against the door frame as Joe turned his head left and right, and dusted his upper arms to get the stray hairs off. It hit him that even though they'd lived together for years when they were younger, he never got to see Joe in this kind of light, in unbothered vulnerability and domesticity. Watching the other man clean up the scissors and razor rooted him to the spot—it was like watching bread rising through the glass window of an oven. Totally mundane, but fascinating once you really pay attention. Silly, yes, but it warmed Andy's heart.

Maybe this could work well. Maybe _they_ could work out well.

“Dude.”

“Oh—what?”

“You've been staring for like a couple minutes now.”

“Sorry. Did you say something?” Andy said, feeling bashful all of a sudden.

“Nothing, but I was going to take a shower, so you might wanna...” Joe trailed, nodding in the door's direction. Before Andy could leave, he spoke again. “Unless you wanted to join me?”

Andy stopped in his tracks and turned around. Joe was looking at him, an eyebrow raised, meaning he was speaking in good humor, but there was something about the glint in his eye that he was hoping Andy would say yes, fucking _yes_. He could feel the temperature in the room rising, and hear the rush of blood in his ears. He felt the familiar pull of want, and for the first time in a long time, he let himself submit to it.

In two steps, he was meeting Joe halfway in a heated kiss, arms circling around each other. It felt as if they were teenagers again, the kiss sloppy and composed of nipped bottom lips and frenzied tongues. But, God, it felt so _good_.

To Joe, it felt like a fucking dream—the love of his life had his tongue in his mouth, hands running all over his bare arms and back. Despite being taller, he felt like just falling into Andy's arms. Fuck, his knees were _shaking_ , for crying out loud.

To Andy, it was a goddamn release. He'd been in control of everything in his life so far—his wolf instincts, his training, his place in the pack, his own emotions before this, but now it was different. He was being swept away, a mere leaf afloat on running water, and he finally felt the rush of just being in the moment. It was liberating. And Joe tasted really, really good.

But before he could get too carried away, he separated himself. “I'm... I...” he said, trying to catch his breath.

Joe licked his lips and touched his forehead to Andy's. Both of their arms were still around each other. “What is it, what's wrong?”

“I... can't. Not yet, at least.” He looked up into Joe's eyes. “I'm sorry.”

“No, it's okay,” Joe shushed. “We'll go as slow as you want to.”

Andy nodded. “Okay.”

“Was that...?”

“Yeah, it was fucking awesome,” Andy chuckled.

“Yeah?” Joe smiled.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Joe backed away far enough so he could kiss Andy's forehead. “I'm glad.” He let go and watched as Andy went to the door. “Hey, Andy?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

Andy didn't say 'I love you' back before he closed the door, but the smile he gave Joe was sweet enough. Joe could deal with that.

 

***

 

Despite falling asleep at an ungodly hour (and having to make sure Meagan and Pete got home safely), Patrick found himself up early and on his way to his usual spot with Brendon. He jogged to the bus stop, a spring strangely in his step. Was he excited to see Brendon? Or was it because he had a date this evening? Either way, he felt great.

Once he reached the clearing before the river, he sat down and took his shoes off. He wiggled his toes in the grass and felt the dew kiss his skin. He looked at the calm, steady flow of the river, trying to ignore the chill he got as he remembered when he last was caught in one's currents.

“Hey, man! You all right?” Brendon said, catching Patrick's attention.

“Oh, hey,” Patrick said, adjusting his hat. “Sorry, I kinda zoned out there.”

Brendon propped himself up on the stones nearby, his tail glistening in the sun. “Woah, you okay? Are you having bad dreams again?”

“No, I just slept really late last night,” Patrick smiled. “Composing.”

“Ah, that's great.” Brendon scratched near his gills, around his ribs. “How've you been? You seem happy.”

“I do?”

“Yeah, look at you, your eyes don't look too tired for someone who's been working all night! Spill—what's going on?”

Patrick leaned back on his arms and stretched his legs. “Well... There's this guy—”

“Go on.”

“— and he's really special to me. _Super_ special. Like, you wouldn't believe it,” Patrick said. He had no idea how to break it to Brendon, the whole 'Hey, I found my soulmate' thing. “He's something else.”

Brendon squealed as he let himself slide off the rocks and wade towards the other man. “Oh my stars, is my Pattycakes in love?” he gushed. “When do I get to meet him? What's he like? _What_ is he?”

Patrick laughed. “Slow down! I'm not in love yet, but it's getting there. He's really sweet, he's funny, he's got a great dog, he's... He's good to me.”

“What's his name?”

“Pete,” Patrick smiled, exhaling the name like a cloud. “His name's super long, but he likes being called Pete.”

“Other or human?”

“Other. He's a witch, you'd get along.”

“Interesting... He's been the only one since...” Brendon trailed, resting a hand on a patch of grass near Patrick's leg.

“Elisa. Yeah.” Patrick looked up at the sky. “I miss her.”

“She's in a better place now, she'd be glad you're happy now,” Brendon replied. “But, my God, it must've been rough on you, losing her like that.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean... You're a Siren. It must've broken your heart when your soulmate died, right?”

Ah, well. He had to tell Brendon sooner or later right?

“I loved Elisa dearly, and I miss her every day, but she wasn't my soulmate.”

The mermaid frowned in confusion. “But I thought—”

“She wasn't, Bee. But it doesn't mean I didn't love her.”

“I see. So this Pete guy, how long have you been together?”

Patrick thought for a bit. “Roughly a week now? More or less.”

Brendon laughed. _“Damn_. And you say I wear my heart on my sleeve! _”_

Patrick laughed. “I did tell you he was really special. He's not just any guy, Bee. He's _something else_ altogether.”

It took a while for it to all make sense to Brendon, but once he understood, nothing could protect Patrick from the splashing Brendon made.

“Oh my God, you fucking asshole, why didn't you just _say_ so! Holy shit, he was your soulmate all this time? Holy _shit_!” Brendon exclaimed, almost leaping out of the water in excitement. “Now I really need to meet this guy.”

“Jeez, calm down! You will, I promise,” Patrick said. Saying that Pete was his soulmate made him feel giddy, he was smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. “And you? How are things with Ryan?”

“Oh, _Lord,_ ” Brendon sighed, leaning back into the water and floating around. “We kissed for the first time yesterday. It was perfect,” he purred, eyes closed. He saw Ryan in his mind's eye, messed-up hair and sweet-smelling, leaning in closer. He was shy, oh so shy, but his mouth tasted so good. “I've fallen hard.”

“As you always do,” Patrick teased.

“No, I _promise_ , this time is really different. There's something about him, like... he's like a puzzle. A mystery. And I can't help but get drawn in, you know?” Brendon defended. “He's not like the others. He feels more honest. And he respects me.”

“Really?”

“Dude. I'm already thinking of introducing him to Sarah. That's how serious I am about this.”

Patrick hissed. “Sarah's a tough cookie, and you know how she feels about you dating humans...”

“Exactly. That's my level of seriousness right now.”

“Well, you know how much I trust you, Forehead. Just be careful, okay?” Patrick said, reaching out and ruffling Brendon's wet hair. “Love carefully, and all that.”

“I could say the same for you and Pete! I better see him soon,” Brendon teased.

“You will!”

Brendon smiled at Patrick. “It's great seeing you like this, man. I'm happy you're happy. Honestly.”

“Me too. He makes me smile a lot, Bren. He's really sweet. You'll like him, I promise.”

“I bet Elisa would've loved to meet him.”

A soft wind blew around them. Patrick returned the smile. “I think so, too.”

 

***

 

Pete looked at himself in the mirror. “You know what? I never thought I'd say this, but I look so good today,” he shouted. He admired himself in his dandelion-yellow suit, and the fact that he found a tie to match it. He was also pretty pleased with the fact that he didn't need to cast a spell to give his self-esteem a boost—the fact that he was going on a fancy date with Patrick tonight was a plus.

“Hold on, I'm putting on lipstick,” Meagan shouted back from inside his bathroom. After a minute, the clicking of her high heels on wood announced her presence. “In all fairness, I actually agree,” she said, leaning against the door frame. “You're wearing the wrong shirt, though.”

The witch looked down. “What are you saying, black goes with everything.”

“Not when you're wearing yellow, Barry B. Benson.”

“Get out of my house, Meagan Jane Camper.”

Meagan laughed and walked to his closet. She rummaged for a bit before finally fishing out a white polo. “Take that off, switch it out for this one. You'll look classier.”

Pete grumbled, but obeyed. Once the white shirt was on, he looked in the mirror again. “Huh,” he said, adjusting his tie. “This does look better.”

“I told you so,” Meagan sing-songed as she sat on his bed. “My ride's coming soon, do you want me to drop you off at Patrick's?”

“Yes, please. He just texted me, he said he doesn't know what to wear.” Pete put his phone in his pocket. “Would any of my clothes fit him?”

“I'm not sure...” Meagan said. “Oh! Don't you have that cool, gradient-ish coat? The gray one? That might look good on him!”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he'll pull it off.”

“Isn't it, like, too artsy or something?”

“What? No!” Meagan crossed her legs. “It's an art event, and you're wearing yellow from your shoulders to your shins. Trust me—he's not gonna be overdressed in it.”

Pete shrugged and pulled the coat out, folding it lengthwise and putting it over his arm. “Let's go?”

“Wait, what about Bowie?”

Pete's face lit up. “Oh, you've got to see him. Bowie! Come here, boy!” he called.

The dog came bounding into the room, slipping a bit on the wooden floor. He sat in front of them, looking pleased with himself and his sparkly bow tie.

“Oh my God...” Meagan said.

“He looks so fancy, that's my good boy!” Pete said, getting on his knees and ruffling Bowie's soft fur. “He's my little fashionista, yes he is...”

“Ride's here!” Meagan said, clicking on her phone. “Let's go?”

“Yeah, hold on, let's send Patrick a selfie.”

Once the photo was snapped and sent, the three were on their way to Patrick's. The ride itself was uneventful, but Pete felt electric. His nerves had lightning in them, and his guts were filled with excitement. _It's the soulmate thing_ , Pete thought. Patrick had told him about what his mom and dad called “the zap,” or the unique bond between soulmates that, whether near or far, they would feel each other's presence through a sort of electric charge in them. _What a wonderful world we live in..._ Pete mused, smiling to himself.

Soon they were in front of Patrick's building. “I'll see you guys tonight, okay?” Meagan said as Pete got out of the car.

“Do you think you could bring Bowie with you? I just don't want him chewing on any of Patrick's things, you know.”

Meagan looked at the dog, who looked pretty comfortable in the backseat. “I don't see why not. He's well-behaved, right?”

“More than you are, actually.”

“Shut up. Go to your man. And no funny business yet!” Meagan joked before shutting the door and speeding away.

Bowie would be fine. Pete jogged up the stairs and knocked on Patrick's door, waiting for a bit before letting himself in. “Patrick?”

“Bedroom,” Patrick called.

“Holy shit,” Pete couldn't help but say. Patrick's room was in horrible disarray—an assortment of cardigans and jackets littered the floor, and it looked like his closet was throwing up different shirts and hats. In the middle of the mess was a strung-out Patrick, red, on the bed, and on the verge of tears. “Are you okay?” the witch asked, tiptoeing over the clothes in his way.

“I have nothing to wear,” Patrick mumbled. “It's a nice event, and I'm sure Meagan will look like a queen, and you...” he said, gesturing to Pete, “You look so perfect. I can't. Maybe I should just stay at home...”

“Hey, no, come here,” Pete shushed, gathering the man into his arms. “You are beautiful, and I'm not just saying that. And that's what I'm here for, I can help you look for stuff to wear.”

“Tough call, I don't go out much, so good luck finding anything in there.”

“You underestimate me. Here—look,” Pete said, picking up a black button-down from the corner of the closet. “Black is classic. Goes with anything, plus it looks so good on you. And I know you own a pair of black pants.” To his relief, Patrick reached out to take the shirt, but with much hesitance. “Do you need me to go outside while you..?”

“No, it's fine, just... Don't say anything. No questions, not yet.”

Pete shrugged. It couldn't be that bad, right? Patrick seemed comfortable about his body enough to not tell Pete to turn around or leave.

It was only when Patrick lifted his shirt and revealed scars around his stomach and chest did Pete find it hard holding his tongue. As his soulmate changed shirts in front of him, he seethed. How dare they? How fucking dare they? His ears started ringing and he felt white hot—with every scar and pockmarked patch on Patrick's torso, Pete sent out a curse to the assholes who caused them.

“Stop,” Patrick said, doing his buttons. “I know you're mad. It's okay. It's in the past now. I'm fine.”

“Patrick, my soul can't _rest_ until I get at at least five of the fuckers who did that to you.”

“I thought you said you'd agree to saying nothing?” Patrick said, in a tone of 'We're Not Talking About This, Not Now'.

Pete ran a hand through his hair, tugging a bit in frustration. “Fine.”

Patrick continued dressing up in silence, this time telling Pete to turn around so he could take his pants off. “I feel too basic in this,” he complained once he was done. “I mean—look at you. You're like a sunflower. I don't want to drag you down.”

“Ah, right. I kind of knew you were going to say something like that, so I brought something of mine.” Pete disappeared to the living room and came back with the oversized coat. “Try it on.”

“Holy shit, it's beautiful...” Patrick let out, stroking over the gray wool. It reminded him of a snowy evening, how the white piled up inches upon inches before it gradually faded into the dark. He shrugged it on and stood in front of a mirror. “God, I look...”

“Good.”

“I was going to say decent.”

“You're too modest.”

“And you are biased.” Patrick took a twirl and smiled at how the coat kind of flared out behind him. “Where'd you get this?”

“Bought it with my first paycheck. It means a lot to me, to be honest.” Pete tugged Patrick towards him and adjusted the lapels of the coat. “And now, it means even more now that you're wearing it.”

Patrick tried to suppress a smile. “You're too cheesy for your own good. I thought you were mad.”

“I'm reserving my seething hatred for when there's a full moon, when I send out hexes,” the witch nonchalantly replied, earning a swat to his left bicep. “But not tonight. Tonight, I'm taking you out to look at some art and have a nice time.” He took Patrick's left hand and kissed his knuckles. “You deserve it.”

“God, you're a cheeseball.”

“Hence the yellow suit. Now come on. Meagan's waiting.”

 

***

 

Brendon has been silent for the past hour. Too silent. It was starting to get suspicious—no merperson _ever_ put that much thought into cleaning up their sleep-space. Not even Sarah herself could take too much silence, which meant her friend was thinking about something _hard_. Like actually thinking. “All right, what's going on?”

“I don't understand what you're talking about.”

“You've been too quiet this whole time. You never shut up about anything, so something's up. Tell me.”

“Again, I have no idea what you're talking about,” Brendon shrugged, putting the trinkets he often collected at the sea floor beside where he would rest his head.

“Is it about human stuff?”

“My business with Ryan is none of your business.” _Wait, hold on—_

“I fucking called it!” Sarah said. “What's going on with you and him? You seem out of it.”

 _Fuck_. “One, I hate you so much.”

“No, you don't.”

“And two,” Brendon continued, pushing the mermaid off his space, “you can go fuck off now. I told you, I'm not spilling.” He plopped himself, belly-side down, onto his sleep-space. “Shoo.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “Come on, Brendon. I know something's bothering you, you've been too quiet. Better tell me now before you accidentally slip and tell your mom.”

Brendon cringed. He knew how his mom still felt about him wanting to see humans. She understood how curious he was—any mermaid would be—but after his last encounter with the harvester that tried to literally skin him, her thoughts on humans changed. _“If another human lays a finger on you, even the Woman in the Moon would pity them after I'm done with them,”_ she had said as she cleaned up what now was the scar on his tail. “Goddammit, fine.” He sat up. “Ryan and I kissed.”

“... Honest opinion?” Sarah asked.

“Go for it.”

“Anticlimactic.”

“Fuck, Sarah. You're supposed to be helping me.”

“I'm sorry, but I don't see kissing humans as an actual problem!”

“The problem here is how I feel for him! Like, true feelings!” Brendon felt his face heat up. “What I had for other humans before just straight up _pales_ in comparison to what's going on with Ryan. I _love_ him, Sarah. And he really likes me back. It's... We're official. A thing. Together.”

Sarah looked at him, confused. “Congrats? I guess?”

“No! No congratulations! This is a red-light situation!”

The mermaid sat beside Brendon. “I'm lost. I thought you wanted this? You're saying you and this guy who you apparently love are together... but you're not happy about it?”

Brendon looked down at his tail, expression unreadable. Moonlight that streamed in through the water's surface glowed off it. “No, I'm just... I want to _be_ with him. And I know that's gonna fuck so many things up.”

“Be with him, as in...?”

Brendon spared her a grave look. “You know what I mean.”

Silence.

“I know, but I don't wanna believe it.”

“Sarah.”

“No. Listen to me.” Sarah swam so she was in front of her friend. “Brendon. What you're thinking of will _kill_ your mother. It's gonna break her heart. I'm not fucking lying, and as happy as I am about you being serious about something for once, I can't let you do that to her. Or to yourself. Do you understand me?” When Brendon didn't answer her, she took his shoulders and shook him. _“Brendon_. I'm not fucking around. Don't even think of it ever again. Do you understand me? _”_

Brendon understood. Honestly, he did. He knew it would put his body through hell, and his mother's heart would fucking _shatter_ , and Sarah would probably curse him to his dying days, but... this was Ryan. This was as real as it got. He couldn't imagine being anywhere else except by his side. But he swallowed his resistance and nodded weakly.

“Good. Consider the things you have here before thinking of leaving it all,” Sarah said. “Give yourself some space. Time to think. You're hopped up on love and human spit right now,” she added, trying to lighten the mood.

The corners of Brendon's mouth twitched a bit. He nodded again. “Sarah?”

“Yeah?”

“Patrick told me he met his soulmate today.”

 _Ah, so this is where he's coming from_. “Good for him,” Sarah said.

“He says his soulmate is good to him.”

“What about you? Do you think Ryan's _your_ soulmate?”

Brendon was quiet. “I don't know. But I'm not lying when I say he makes me feel the way it probably does.”

Sarah sighed. “God, you're stubborn. Sleep. You need to rest. Your mind doesn't work properly when you're tired.”

“Fine.”

Sarah didn't leave until Brendon was nestled into his sleep-space, carved into a rock by the current itself. He watched as her form got smaller and smaller, until her silhouette was nothing but a cloud of bubbles in the dark open ocean. But he could not sleep. His mind ran a mile a minute, dreaming of the possibilities he had on land with Ryan, imagining scenarios too sweet for the reality he had now. All it took was his kiss to undo all he found comfortable. “Fuck...” he spat, flopping onto his back. “Woman, help me,” he muttered to the wavy outline of the moon above.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brendon is WHIPPED. 
> 
> also, pete's yellow suit is fucking iconic, that color really suits him??? omg. i wish he makes another fashion line tbh i would pay good money for it.
> 
> i hope you enjoyed it!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are appreciated but not mandatory!!
> 
> I own nothing except the plot UvU
> 
> See you next Tuesday!!!


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